SMOKY

                             The Cow Horse

                              Will James

                            Buccaneer Books
                          Cutchogue, New York

         Copyright 1926 Charles Scribner's Sons; renewal 1954

         Copyright 1926 Charles Scribner's Sons; renewal 1954
                            Auguste Dufault

           International Standard Book Number: 1-56849-236-7

                  For ordering information, contact:

                         Buccaneer Books, Inc.
                             P. O. Box 168
                       Cutchogue, New York 11935
                  (516) 734-5724, Fax (516) 734-7920




                                PREFACE


To my way of thinking there's something wrong, or missing, with any
person who hasn't got a soft spot in their heart for an animal of
some kind. With most folks the dog stands highest as man's friend,
then comes the horse, with others the cat is liked best as a pet, or
a monkey is fussed over; but whatever kind of animal it is a person
likes, it's all hunkydory so long as there's a place in the heart for
one or a few of them.

I've never as yet went wrong in sizing up a man by the kind of a
horse he rode. A good horse always packs a good man, and I've always
dodged the hombre what had no thought nor liking for his horse or
other animals, for I figger that kind of gazabo is best to be left
unacquainted with, no good would ever come of the meeting.

With me, my weakness lays towards the horse. My life, from the time
I first squinted at daylight has been with horses. I admire every
step that crethure makes, I know them and been thru so much with 'em
that I've come to figger a big mistake was made when the horse was
classed as an animal. To me, the horse is man's greatest, most useful,
faithful, and powerful friend. He never whines when he's hungry or sore
footed or tired, and he'll keep on a going for the human till he drops.

The horse is not appreciated and never will be appreciated enough,--few
humans, even them that works him, really know him, but then there's
so much to know about him. I've wrote this book on only one horse
and when I first started it I was afraid I'd run out of something to
write, but I wasn't half thru when I begin to realize I had to do some
squeezing to get the things in I wanted, and when I come to the last
chapter was when I seen how if I spent my life writing on the horse
alone and lived to be a hundred I'd only said maybe half of what I feel
ought to be said.

The horse I wrote of in this book is not an exception, there's quite a
few like him, he's not a fiction horse that's wrote about in a dream
and made to do things that's against the nature of a horse to do. Smoky
is just a horse, but all horse, and that I think is enough said.

As for Clint, the cowboy who "started" Smoky, he's no exception either.
He's just a man who was able to see and bring out the good that was
in the horse--and no matter how some writers describe the cowboy's
handling of horses, I'm here to say that I can produce many a cowboy
what can show feelings for a horse the same as Clint done.

But Smoky met other humans besides Clint, many others, and of all
kinds, and that's where the story comes in. And now, my main ambition
as I turn Smoky loose to making hisself acquainted is that the folks
who will get to know him will see that horse as _I_ seen him.

                                                         WILL JAMES III




                               CONTENTS


                        I. A RANGE COLT

                       II. SMOKY MEETS THE HUMAN

                      III. WHERE THE TRAILS FORK

                       IV. THE END OF A ROPE

                        V. THE BRONC TWISTER STEPS UP

                       VI. "THE SQUEAK OF LEATHER"

                      VII. SMOKY SHOWS HIS FEELINGS

                      VII. SMOKY STARTS OUT

                       IX. FIGHTS FOR RIGHTS

                        X. "AMONGST THE MISSING"

                       XI. "THE FEEL OF A STRANGE HAND"

                      XII. "WHEN THE GOOD LEAVES"

                     XIII. "A MANY-MEN HORSE"

                      XIV. "DARK CLOUDS, THEN TALL GRASS"




                             ILLUSTRATIONS


His ears begin to work back and forth towards the sound his mammy would
make as she moved

His long legs tangled and untangled themselves as he run, and he was
sure making speed

His mammy shot up the hill, took in the goings-on at a glance, and ears
back, teeth a shining, tore up the earth and lit into the cayote like a
ton of dynamite

Smoky had 'em all buffaloed

And as his mammy went to join the bunch, he followed and the big
buckskin brought up the rear

The lion had figgered on his victim a jumping to one side at his leap,
and he'd allowed for that

He got strong headed and full of mischief, and then's when the older
horses figgered him to be a regular pest

There's bowed necks as the three touch nostrils

Smoky done a side swipe that was quicker than chained lightning

The cowboy still hanging onto the rope that held his head, came on,
saddle and all with him, and quivering with fear the little horse layed
low, feet straight out in front and head near to the ground he stayed
there

He didn't forget how he was stopped, and so sudden, that first time
he'd tried to break with an empty saddle

A hand touched him on the forehead

And when a glance back showed Smoky the rider was still there, he got
desperate again and begin to see red

Smoky wondered what a rope was doing up there

The bush came out and headed straight for Smoky

He liked to chase the wild-eyed cow, turn her when she didn't want to
be turned, and put her where she didn't want to be put

Smoky's eyes was on Jeff with a steady warning in 'em for him to keep
his distance--and Jeff did

Smoky stuck his head and neck out far as he could and nickered at the
sight of the cowboy

Clint was about to get on his horse and ride away, but he stopped, and
felt of Smoky's hide once more

Feed was aplenty and the little pawing that had to be done to reach it
was like so much exercise and only kept his blood in good circulating
order

The black was jerked off his feet, rolled plum over, and he lit head
first on the other side

Smoky and Pecos' hides begin a itching and the two was often busy
scratching one another

Slow and easy Clint raised a hand and held it to within a few inches of
his nose

Old Tom didn't even get well set that time, Smoky bowed his head and
went out from under him leaving him come down on the other side

Many a cowboy had remarked it was worth the price of a good show to
watch Smoky outdodge the critter

The next day Clint was busy bringing the weak stock closer to the ranch

Heavy drifts was lunged into and hit on a high run as they tried to
leave the rider behind

And even tho cattle is what the round up wagons was out for, there was
more eyes out for Smoky

Clint'd keep on comparing whatever horse he'd be riding with Smoky,
and find that pony (no matter how good he was) a mighty poor excuse as
compared with the mouse colored horse that was missing

A rope had settled around his neck once, he'd fought till it
broke,--and run on a dragging it

And while the breed was getting as much of the saddle under him as he
could, the cowboy took off the foot ropes

Smoky's interest was all for shedding the saddle right then and all
that carried the breed's smell

That pony had been harder to get near than any of the wild ones he was
with

The breed would often watch him thru the corral poles and wonder

The horse had been found out on the desert, amongst a bunch of wild
horses and packing an empty saddle

In front of the crowded grandstand is where his fame as a man-hating,
bucking outlaw begin to spread

The chute gate would fly open, and out would come a tearing, bellering
hunk of steel coils to land out a ways, and like a ton of lava from
above, jar the earth even up to the grandstand

The Cougar reared up while the rider was still in the air, then turned,
and with his ears back, teeth a flashing, hoofs a striking with
lightning speed, went to carry out his heart's craving

About that time the mouse colored outlaw peeked thru the bars of the
chute at him and snorted

He wasn't caring right then if it was said that he didn't ride the
horse to the finish

The long horned "Sonora reds" begin to spread all over the range
countries of the U. S. plum up to the Canadian line

No remuda got by that Clint didn't ride thru

As he stepped out to get a bucket of water the morning sun throwed a
shadow on the door




                                 SMOKY




                               CHAPTER I

                             A RANGE COLT


It seemed like Mother Nature was sure agreeable that day when the
little black colt came to the range world and tried to get a footing
with his long wobblety legs on the brown prairie sod. Short stems of
new green grass was trying to make their way up thru the last year's
faded growth and reaching for the sun's warm rays. Taking in all that
could be seen, felt, and inhaled, there was no day, time, nor place
that could beat that spring morning on the sunny side of the low
prairie butte where Smoky the colt was foaled.

"Smoky" wouldn't have fitted the colt as a name just then on account
he was jet black, but that name wasn't attached onto him till he was a
four-year-old, which was when he first started being useful as a saddle
horse. He didn't see the first light of day thru no box stall window,
and there was no human around to make a fuss over him and try to steady
him on his feet for them first few steps. Smoky was just a little range
colt and all the company he had that first morning of his life was his
watchful mammy.

Smoky wasn't quite an hour old when he begin to take interest in
things, the warm spring sun was doing its work and kept a pouring
warmth all over that slick little black hide and right on thru his
little body till pretty soon his head come up kinda shaky and he begin
nosing around them long front legs that was stretched out in front of
him. His mammy was close by him and at the first move the colt made she
run her nose along his short neck and nickered. Smoky's head went up
another two inches at the sound and his first little answering nicker
was heard, of course a person would of had to listen mighty close to
hear it, but then if you'd a watched his nostrils quivering you could
tell that's just what he was trying to do.

That was the starting of Smoky. Pretty soon his ears begin to work
back and forth towards the sound his mammy would make as she moved. He
was trying to locate just where she was. Then something moved right
in front of his nose about a foot; it'd been there quite a good spell
but he'd never realized it before; besides his vision was a little dim
yet and he wasn't interested much till that something moved again and
planted itself still closer.

[Illustration: His ears begin to work back and forth towards the sound
his mammy would make as she moved. His vision was dim yet, and he was
trying to locate just where she was.]

Being it was right close he took a sniff at it. That sniff recorded
itself into his brain and as much as told him that all was well, it
was one of his mammy's legs. His ears perked up and he tried nickering
again with a heap better result than the first time.

One good thing called for another and natural like he made a sudden
scramble to get up, but his legs wouldn't work right and just about
when he'd got his belly clear of the ground and as he was resting
there for another try at the rest of the way up, one of his front legs
quivered and buckled at the elbow, and the whole works went down.

He layed there flat on his side and breathing hard, his mammy nickered
encouragement, and it wasn't long when his head was up again and his
legs spraddled out all around him the same as before. He was going to
try again, but next time he was going to be more sure of his _ground_.
He was studying, it seemed like, and sniffing of his legs and then the
earth like he was trying to figger out how he was going to get one to
stand up on the other. His mammy kept a circling around and a talking
to him in horse language; she'd give him a shove with her nose then
walk away and watch him.

The spring air which I think is most for the benefit of all that's
young had a lot to do to keep Smoky from laying still for very long,
his vision was getting clearer fast, and his strength was coming in
just as fast. Not far away, but still too far for Smoky to see was
little calves, little white-faced fellers a playing and bucking around
and letting out wall-eyed bellers at their mammies, running out a ways
and then running back, tails up, at a speed that'd make a greyhound
blush for shame.

There was other little colts too all a cavorting around and tearing up
good sod, but with all them calves and colts that was with the bunches
of cattle or horses scattered out on the range the same experience of
helplessness that Smoky was going thru had been theirs for a spell, and
a few hadn't been as lucky as Smoky in their first squint at daylight.
Them few had come to the range world when the ground was still covered
with snow, or else cold spring rains was a pouring down to wet 'em to
the bone.

Smoky's mother had sneaked out of the bunch a few days before Smoky
came and hid in a lonely spot where she'd be sure that no cattle nor
horses or even riders would be around. In a few days and when Smoky
would be strong enough to lope out she'd go back again, but in the
meantime she wanted to be alone with her colt and put all her attention
on him without having to contend with chasing off big inquisitive
geldings or jealous fillies.

She was of range blood which means mostly mustang with strains of
Steeldust or Coach throwed in; if hard winters come and the range was
covered with heavy snows she knowed of high ridges where the strong
winds kept a few spots bare and where feed could be got. If droughts
came to dry up the grass and water holes, she sniffed the air for
moisture and drifted out acrost the plain which was her home range to
the high mountains where things was more normal. There was cougars
and wolves in that high country but her mustang instinct made her the
"fittest." She circled around and never went under where the lion was
perched a waiting for her, and the wolf never found her where she could
be cornered.

Smoky had inherited that same instinct of his mammy's, but on that
quiet spring morning he wasn't at all worried about enemies, his mammy
was there, and besides he had a hard job ahead that was taking all of
his mind to figger out, that was to stand on them long things which was
fastened to his body and which kept a spraddling out in all directions.

The first thing to do was to gather 'em under him and try again, he did
that easy enough, and then he waited and gathered up all the strength
that was in him, he sniffed at the ground to make sure it was there and
then his head went up, his front feet stretched out in front of him,
and with his hind legs all under him he used all that strength he'd
been storing up and pushed himself up on his front feet, his hind legs
straightened up to steady him and as luck would have it there was just
enough distance between each leg to keep him up there. All he had to
do was to keep them legs stiff and from buckling up under him, which
wasn't at all easy, cause getting up to where he was had used up a lot
of his strength and them long legs of his was doing a heap of shaking.

All would of been well maybe, only his mammy nickered "that's a good
boy," and that's what queered Smoky. His head went up proud as a
peacock and he forgot all about keeping his props stiff and under him.
Down he went the whole length of his legs, and there he layed the same
as before.

But he didn't lay long this time. He either liked the sport of going up
and coming down or else he was getting peeved, he was up again, mighty
shaky, but he was up sure enough. His mammy came to him, she sniffed at
him and he sniffed back, then nature played another hand and he nursed,
the first nourishment was took in, his tummy warmed up and strength
came fast. Smoky was an hour and a half old and up to Stay.

The rest of that day was full of events for Smoky, he explored the
whole country, went up big mountains two feet high, wide valleys six
or eight feet acrost and at one time was as far as twelve feet away
from his mammy all by himself. He shied at a rock once, it was a
dangerous _looking_ rock, and he kicked at it as he went past. All that
action being put on at once come pretty near being too much for him
and he come close to measuring his whole length on Mother Earth once
again. But luck was with him, and taking it all he had a mighty good
time; when the sun went to sinking over the blue ridges in the West,
Smoky, he missed all the beauty of the first sunset in his life, he
was stretched out full length, of his own accord this time, and sound
asleep.

The night was a mighty good rival of what the day had been, all the
stars was out and showing off, and the braves was a chasing the buffalo
plum around the Big Dipper, the water hole of The Happy Hunting
Grounds, but all that was lost to Smoky, he was still asleep and
recuperating from his first day's adventures, and most likely he'd kept
on sleeping for a good long spell, only his mammy who was standing
guard over him happened to get a little too close and stepped on his
tail.

Smoky must of been in the middle of some bad dream, his natural
instinct might of pictured some enemy to his mind, and something that
looked like a wolf or a bear must of had him cornered for sure. Anyway,
when he felt his tail pinched that way he figgered that when a feller
begins to _feel_ it's sure time to act, and he did. He shot up right
under his mammy's chin, let out a squeal, and stood there ready to
fight. He took in the country for _feet_ and _feet_ around and looking
for the enemy that'd nipped him and finally in his scouting around
that way he run acrost the shadow of his mammy,--that meant but one
thing, safety, and that accounted for and put away as past left room
for a craving he'd never noticed in his excitement. He was hungry, and
proceeded right then and there to take on a feed of his mammy's warm,
rich milk.

The sky was beginning to get light in the East, the stars was fading
away and the buffalo hunters had went to rest, a few hours had passed
since Smoky had been woke up out of his bad dream and there he was,
asleep again. He'd missed his first sunset and now he was sleeping
thru his first sunrise, but he was going to be prepared for that new
day's run, and the strength he was accumulating through them sleeps and
between feeds would sure make him fit to cover a lot of territory.

There wasn't a move out of him till the sun was well up and beginning
to throw a good heat. He stacked up on a lot of that heat, and pretty
soon one of his ears moved, then the other. He took a long breath and
stretched. Smoky was coming to life.--His mammy nickered, and that done
the trick, Smoky raised his head, looked around, and proceeded to get
up. After a little time that was done and bowing his neck he stretched
again. Smoky was ready for another day.

The big day started right after Smoky had his feed, then his mother
went to grazing and moving away straight to the direction of some trees
a mile or so to the south. A clear spring was by them trees, and water
is what Smoky's mammy wanted the most right then. She was craving for
a drink of that cold water, but you'd never thought it by the way she
traveled. She'd nose around at the grass and wait for spells so as
little Smoky could keep up with her and still find time to investigate
everything what throwed a shadow.

A baby cottontail had jumped up once right under his nose, stood there
a second too scared to move, and pretty soon made a high dive between
the colt's long legs and hit for his hole; Smoky never seen the rabbit
or even knowed he was there or he might of been running yet, cause
that's what he'd been looking for, an excuse to run. But he finally
made up an excuse and a while later as he brushed past a long dry weed
and it tickled his belly, he let out a squeal and went from there.

His long legs tangled and untangled themselves as he run, and he was
sure making speed. Around and around he went and finally lined out
straight away from where his mammy was headed. She nickered for him
and waited, all patience. He turned after a spell and headed for his
mammy again the same as tho he'd run acrost another enemy at the other
end and as he got close to his mammy he let out a buck, a squeal, a
snort, and stopped,--he was sure some little wild horse.

[Illustration: His long legs tangled and untangled themselves as he
run, and he was sure making speed.]

It took a couple of hours for them two to make that mile to the spring.
The mother drank a lot of that good water, a few long breaths and drank
some more till the thirst was all gone. Smoky came over and nosed at
the pool, but he didn't take on any of the fluid, it looked just like
so much thin air to him, the same with the tender green grass that was
beginning to grow in bunches everywhere; it was just growing for him to
run on.

The rest of that day was pretty well used up around that one spot;
adventures of all kinds was numerous for Smoky, and when he wasn't
stretched out and asleep there was plenty of big stumps in the
cottonwood grove that could be depended on to give him the scare he'd
be looking for.

But there was other things and more threatening than stumps which
Smoky hadn't as yet spotted, like for instance,--a big cayote had
squatted and been watching him thru dead willow branches. He wasn't at
all interested in the action Smoky was putting into his play and only
wished the colt's mammy would move away a little further when he would
then take a chance and try to get him down,--colt meat was his favorite
dish and he sure wasn't going to let no chance slip by even if it took
a whole day's waiting for one to show itself.

A couple of chances had come his way but they was queered by Smoky's
mammy being too close, and he knowed better than show himself and get
run down by them hoofs of hers. Finally, and when he seen his appetite
wouldn't win anything by sticking around that spot any longer, he took
a last sniff and came out of his hiding place. Keeping the willows
between him and the horses he loped out till he was at a safe running
distance and where he could see all around him and there he squatted
again, in plain sight this time. He hadn't quite made up his mind as
yet whether to go or stick around a while longer.--Just about then
Smoky spots him.

To him, the cayote was just another stump, but more interesting than
the others he'd kicked at on account that this stump moved, and that
promised a lot of excitement. With a bowed neck and kinked tail Smoky
trotted up towards the cayote. The cayote just set there and waited and
when the colt got to within a few feet from him, he started away and
just fast enough so as the colt's curiosity would make him follow. If
he could only get the colt over the ridge and out of his mammy's sight.

It all was only a lot of fun to Smoky, and besides he was bound to find
out what was that grey and yellow object that could move and run and
didn't at all look like his mammy. His instinct was warning him steady
as he went, but curiosity had the best of him, and it wasn't till he
was over the hill before his instinct got above his curiosity and he
seen that all wasn't well.

The cayote had turned and quicker than a flash made a jump for Smoky's
throat.--The generations of mustang blood that'd fought the lobo and
cougar and which was the same blood that flowed in Smoky's veins is
all that saved the colt. That inherited instinct made him do the right
thing at the right time, he whirled quicker than lightning and let
fly with both hind feet with the result that the cayote's teeth just
pinched the skin under his jaws. But even at that, he wasn't going to
get rid of his enemy (it was a sure enough enemy this time) that easy,
and as he kicked he felt the weight of the cayote, and then a sharp
pain on his ham strings.

Smoky was scared, and he let out a squeal that sure made every living
thing in that neighborhood set up and wonder, it was a plain and loud
distress signal, and it was answered. His mammy shot up the hill, took
in the goings-on at a glance, and ears back, teeth a shining, tore up
the earth and lit into the battle like a ton of dynamite.

[Illustration: His mammy shot up the hill, took in the goings-on at a
glance, and ears back, teeth a shining, tore up the earth and lit into
the cayote like a ton of dynamite.]

The battle was over in a second, and with hunks of yellow fur a flying
all directions it wound up in a chase. The cayote was in the lead and
he stayed in the lead till a second hill took him out of sight.

Smoky was glad to follow his mammy back to the spring and on to the
other side a ways. He didn't shy at the stumps he passed on the way,
and the twig that tickled his tummy didn't bring no play, he was hungry
and tired, and when the first was tended to and his appetite called for
no more he lost no time to picking out a place to rest his weary bones.
A thin stream of blood was drying on one of his hind legs, but there
was no pain, and when the sun set and the shadow of his mammy spread
out over him he was sound asleep, and maybe dreaming of stumps, of
stumps that moved.

When the sun came up the next morning, Smoky was up too, and eyes half
closed was standing still as the big boulder next to him and sunned
himself. A stiff hind leg was a reminder of what happened the day
before, but the experience was forgotten far as dampening his spirits
was concerned, even the stiffness wouldn't hold him back from whatever
the new day would hold. He'd always remember the cayote, and from then
on never mistake him for a stump, but that sure wasn't going to take
any play out of him.

He was two days old now and strength had piled up fast, he felt there
was no trail too long for him and when the sun was a couple of hours
high that morning and his mother showed indications that she wanted to
drift he sure wasn't dragging along behind. The stiffness gradually
went out of his hind leg as he traveled, and by the afternoon of that
day he was again shying at everything and sometimes even shying at
nothing at all.

They kept a traveling and traveling, and it seemed like to Smoky that
the trail was getting pretty long after all. They skirted the flat
along the foot of the mountains, crossed one high ridge, and many
creeks, and still his mother was drifting on. She wouldn't hardly even
stop for him to nurse, and Smoky was getting cranky, and tired.

The pace kept up till the sun was well on its way down, when it
slackened some and finally the mother went to grazing. A short while
later Smoky was layed out full length and dead to the world.

Smoky didn't know and didn't care much just then, but his mammy was
headed back to her home range, where there was lots of horses and other
little colts for him to play with, and when late that night she lined
out again traveling steady he wasn't in any too good a humor.

Finally it seemed like they'd got there, for his mammy after watering
at a creek went to grazing at the edge of some big cottonwoods, she
showed no indications of wanting to go any further. Right there Smoky
was willing to take advantage of the chance and recuperate for all
he was worth, the sun came up, but Smoky was in the shade of the
cottonwoods what was beginning to leaf out. He slept on and a twitching
ear once in long spells is all that showed he was still alive.

That day never seen much of him, once in a while he'd get up and nurse
but right away after he'd disappear again and stretch out flat on the
warm earth.

He kept that up till way in the middle of the next night, and it was
well towards morning before he felt like he was all horse again.

He come out of it in fine shape though, and he was stronger than ever.
His vision was taking more territory too, and he was getting so he
could see near half as far as his mammy could. She was the first to
see the bunch of range horses trailing in to water early that morning,
Smoky heard her nicker as she recognized the bunch and it drawed a heap
of interest as to what she was nickering about, for he was right there
alongside of her and he couldn't see nothing for her to nicker at, but
pretty soon he could hear the horses as they trailed towards him, his
ears straightened towards the sound and a while later he could make
out the shapes of 'em. Smoky just kind of quivered at the sight of so
many that looked like his mammy. He was all interested, but at the same
time and even tho his instinct told him that all was well he had no
hankering to leave his mammy's side till he knowed for sure just what
was up.

The mother watched the bunch coming closer with ears pointed straight
ahead, but soon as some of the leaders discovered little Smoky there
was a commotion and they all begin crowding in to get a look at and
greet the newcomer, about which time the mother layed her ears back. It
was a warning that none of 'em come too close.

Little Smoky's knees was a shaking under him at the sight of so many
of his kind, he leaned against his mammy half afraid, but his head was
up far as he could get it and facing 'em and showed by the shine in his
eyes that he liked the whole proceeding mighty well at that. He rubbed
nostrils with a strange gelding which was braver than the rest and
dared come close, and when that gelding was nipped at by his mammy he
had a mighty strong hankering to help her along just for fun, and nip
him himself.

The preliminary introduction took a good hour, and the mother stood
guard; not for fear that any of 'em would harm Smoky, but she wanted
it understood from the start that he was her little colt and she had
the say over him. It finally _was_ understood, but it took all that day
and part of the next for the bunch to get used in having the new little
feller around and quit making a fuss over him.

They was all jealous of one another and fought amongst themselves to be
the only one near him, and his mother, of course she'd declared herself
from the start, and it was took for granted from all around that her
place in Smoky's heart couldn't be considered, and all knowed better
than try and chase her away from him. Fillies and old mares, young
geldings and old ponies and all, had it out as to which was the most
fit to tag along and play with Smoky and keep a watchful eye over him
along with his mammy. All wanted the job, but a big buckskin saddle
horse who all the time had been the boss of the herd took it to hand
to show them that _he_ would be the all around guardeen for Smoky, and
second only to his mammy. He delivered a few swift kicks, pounded
on some ribs, left teeth marks on shiny hides, and after taking one
last look and making sure that all was persuaded grazed out towards
Smoky who by his mammy had watched the whole proceeding with a heap of
interest.

There was three other little colts in the bunch besides Smoky, and each
time one of them little fellers came the buckskin horse had to whip the
bunch so as he'd have the say over the newest one. Now Smoky was the
newest one, and the buckskin horse had first rights as an outsider once
again. He was an old horse full of scars showing where he'd had many
a scrap, there was saddle marks on his back and at one time had been
a mighty fine cowhorse. Now he was pensioned, he'd more than earned a
rest and all he had to do for the rest of his life was to pick out good
feed grounds for the winter, shady places and tenderest green grass for
the summer, and his other interest in life was them little colts that
came in spring time.

Smoky's mother was young, at least ten years younger than the buckskin
horse, but the buckskin was like a colt compared to her when it come to
be playful. She had the responsibility of Smoky and while she let him
play with her, kick or bite at her, she never played with him and once
in a while if he'd get too rough she'd let him know about it. She loved
little Smoky with all her heart and would of died for him any time, and
her main interest was to see that she kept in condition so that Smoky
would never be stunted by lacking of rich milk. She had no time for
play.

And that's where the old buckskin came in. Him and Smoky was soon
acquainted, in a short while they was playing, Smoky would kick at him
while the big buckskin nipped him easy and careful along the flank,
then he'd run away from him, and the little colt had a lot of fun
chasing that big hunk of horseflesh all over the country. The rest
of the bunch would watch the two play and with no effort to hide how
jealous they felt.

Smoky's mother kept her eye on the buckskin, but never interfered, she
knowed, and it was only when Smoky came back to her, tired and hungry,
that she put her ears back and warned him to keep away.

It took a few days before the buckskin would allow any of the other
horses to get near Smoky, and then he had no say about it for he found
that Smoky had his own ideas about things, and if he wanted to mingle
in with the other horses that was his business, and all the buckskin
could do then was to try and keep the other horses away. That was quite
a job, specially if Smoky wanted to be with them. So the buckskin
finally had to give it up and do the best he could which was to see
that none of 'em done him any harm. But none of 'em had any intentions
of doing the little colt any harm, and as it was it looked like Smoky
had 'em all buffaloed. He'd tear in after some big horse like he was
going to eat him up and all that big horse would do was to scatter out
like the devil was after him.

[Illustration: Smoky had 'em all buffaloed.]

Smoky was the boss and pet of the herd for a good two weeks and then
one day, here comes another little feller, a little bay colt just two
days old and trailing in alongside his mammy. Smoky was left in the
background and witnessed the same fuss and commotion that was done
over him that morning by the creek. The buckskin horse once again
fought his way in that new little feller's heart, and right away he
forgot Smoky.

But Smoky never seen anything wrong to that, he went on to playing with
every horse that would have him and it wasn't long till he picked up
with a young fillie and afterwards went to mingling with other young
colts.

From then on Smoky had more freedom, he could go out a ways without
having some big overgrowed horse tagging along, but he never went far
and if he did he always came back a heap faster than when he started
out. But them spring days was great for Smoky, he found out a lot of
things amongst which was, that grass was good to eat, and water mighty
fine to drink when the day was hot, he seen cayotes again and the
bigger he got the less he was afraid of 'em till he finally went to
chasing every one of 'em he'd see.

Then one day he run acrost another yellow animal. That animal didn't
look dangerous, and what's more it was hard for Smoky to make out just
what it was, and he was bound to find out. He followed that animal plum
to the edge of some willows, and the queer part of it was that animal
didn't seem at all in a hurry to get away, it was mumbling along and
just taking its time and Smoky was mighty tempted to plant one front
foot right in the middle of it and do some pawing, but as luck would
have it he didn't have the chance, it'd got in under some willows and
all that was sticking out was part of the animal's tail. Smoky took a
sniff at it without learning anything outside that it shook a little,
there didn't seem to be no danger, so the next sniff he took was a
little closer, and that done the trick. Smoky let out a squeal and a
snort as he felt his nostrils punctured in half a dozen places with
four-inch porcupine quills.

But Smoky was lucky, for if he'd been a couple of inches closer there'd
been quills rammed into his nose plum up to his eyes, which would've
caused a swelling in such size that he couldn't of been able to eat and
most likely starve to death. As it was there was just a few of them
quills in his nostrils, and compared to the real dose he might of got,
it was just a mild warning to him. Another lesson.

It was a few days later when he met another strange animal, or strange
animals, for there was many of 'em. He didn't get much interest out of
them somehow, but while they was handy maybe it was just as well for
him to have a close look at one. Besides he had nothing else to do, and
his mammy wasn't far away.

His instinct had no warning to give as he strutted towards the smallest
one of the strangers which he'd picked to investigate. He wasn't afraid
of this animal and this animal didn't seem afraid of him so Smoky kept
a getting closer till one was within a couple of feet of the other.
Both Smoky and this stranger was young, and mighty inquisitive, and
neither as yet knowed that they'd sure be seeing plenty of each other's
kind as they get older, that they'll be meeting thru the round-ups at
the "cutting-grounds," on "day-herd" and on "night-guard," on the long,
hot, and dusty trails. A cowboy will be riding Smoky then and keeping
a whole herd on the move, a whole herd of the kind that little Smoky
was so busy investigating that day. They'll be full grown then, and
there'll be other young ones to take the place of them that's trailed
in to the shipping point.

But Smoky wasn't as yet worried or even thought on what was to come,
neither was the little white-faced calf he was exchanging squints with,
and when the critter called her long-eared, split-hoofed baby to her
side, Smoky just kicked up his heels, put his head down, and bucked and
crowhopped all the way to where his mammy and the rest of the bunch was
grazing.




                              CHAPTER II

                         SMOKY MEETS THE HUMAN


The long spring days followed by the warmer days of middle summer had
took away all signs of snow excepting where the peaks was highest and
the canyons deep and narrow. Up there was crusted hunks still holding
out against the sun and hugging the shady sides of rocky ledges, and
leaving out moisture that kept the springs and creeks running to the
flats below.

The grass was greener up there, the flies wasn't so bad, and besides
there was always a breeze and sometimes a wind which made things mighty
cooling, specially in the shade of the twisted pines scattered over the
country where Smoky, his mammy, and the bunch was ranging.

That high, rocky, and rough territory had a lot to do in the makings of
Smoky. Playing down the steep ridges where shale rock made the footing
slippery and mighty uncertain had took all the wobble and shake out of
his legs, they fit to his body more and rounded up in size so as they
looked like they really belonged to him. His hoofs had long ago lost
their pink soft shell and turned to steel grey and were near as hard
and tough as steel itself, and the way he'd buck and play down a rocky
canyon and jump over down timber, may not of compared with a mountain
goat for sureness, but he more than made up for that in speed and
recklessness, and somehow he'd always hit the bottom right side up.

It was in one of them wild scrambles down a mountain side one day
that Smoky near run into a cinnamon cub which had been curled up and
sleeping on top of a big stump. Smoky stood in his tracks for a second,
and in that second the cub fell off the stump with a snarl and lit
arunning on the other side.

The action of the cub is what decided Smoky whether to stand still,
turn back and high-tail it, or follow and investigate, but his
curiosity was still with him, and bowing his neck he paced high and
mighty on the trail of the hairy puzzle.

Over dead timber he went, sailed acrost washes, and ducked under
branches. He was gaining and would of kept the chase up for quite a
spell, only, and just when things was getting real interesting, there
was a crash, and to his right a dust and a commotion which sounded
like a landslide. In half a second more, a big round brown head showed
itself thru a tangle of broken limbs and underbrush, Smoky got a
glimpse of two small eyes afire, long white teeth a gleaming, and when
all the sudden apparition was backed by a roar that near shook the
mountains, Smoky left. He tore a hole in the earth as he turned tail,
and he wasn't pacing high and mighty as he made distance and raced back
towards his mammy and safety.

His heart was thumping fit to bust as he cleared the timber and got out
in open country, and for the life of him he couldn't figger out how
that little bunch of fur he'd been chasing could turn out into such
a scenery-tearing cyclone as what he'd got a glimpse of. He'd never
reckoned the little cub had a mammy too.

But Smoky was learning fast, and along with his own experiences he
learned from his mother just what was what in the timber and on the
flats;--like another time on the foothills, his mammy was in the lead
and him following close behind on a hot dusty trail towards a shady
spot. Of a sudden there was a rattling sound, and just as sudden his
mammy left the trail as though she'd been shot. Instinct made Smoky do
the same and none too soon, for on the left just a foot or so off the
trail was a wriggling thing that'd just struck, and missed to reach his
ankle by an inch.

Smoky stood off at a safe distance and snorted at it as it coiled up
ready. Somehow he had no hankering to go stick his nose nowheres near
or take a sniff at the grey and dirty yellow colored rattler, and when
his mammy nickered for him to follow there was a warning in her nicker,
he took another look at the snake. He'd remember, and do the same as
his mother had done whenever the rattling sound would be heard again.

Taking in all, Smoky was getting mighty wise along with being mighty
lucky in getting that wisdom, scratches is about all he ever packed
out of any scramble, and scratches didn't count with him. His hide was
getting tough and the blood that flowed in his veins wasn't from a
heart that'd peter out very easy.

The little horse was having a great time up in that high country,
and if he'd seen more of life, he'd most likely wondered how long
it all was going to last, it would of struck him as too good to last
much longer, but as it was, Smoky took in all that life could give
and enjoyed it to the limit. He never passed anything which had him
wondering for fear of missing something. If a limb cracked anywheres
within hearing distance he'd perk his ears towards the sound and seldom
would go on till he found out just why that limb cracked that way, he'd
follow and pester the badger till it'd hunt a hole, he'd circle around
a tree and watch the bushy tailed squirrel as it'd climb up out of his
reach.--Skunks had crossed his trail too, but somehow, the atmosphere
around 'em would sort of dampen his curiosity and he always kept his
distance.

Smoky had met and had experiences with all the range country's wild
animals excepting the lion and the wolf. His mammy kept clear of
the territory where them outlaws ranged, and if by scent the bunch
suspicioned them two as neighbors they'd drift, or else keep on the
lookout till the others had drifted. Smoky met them too and had
scrambles with 'em, but that came later in his life, and it's a good
thing it was later, for I most likely wouldn't be telling about Smoky
now.

The first big event of Smoky's life came when he was four months old.
There was nothing to tell him anything would happen, no dark skies nor
ill winds to threaten or warn, and as it was, the little feller was
just in the steady motion of keeping one end of himself clear of the
few flies that was around, that short tail of his was working like a
pendulum, he was standing up and asleep, the breeze blowed thru his
mane and that same breeze made a sort of lullaby as it passed thru the
branches of the big pine that shaded him and his mammy.

His mammy was asleep too, and so was the rest of the bunch, and when
the cowboy that was riding up the canyon spotted 'em he knowed he could
get above 'em and be where he could start 'em down before any of the
bunch would see him.

It was a mighty good thing he done that, for soon as one of the bunch
got wind of him and raised a head, there was a snort, they came to life
and was on the run in a split second. Down the side of the canyon they
went, a cloud of dust and the cowboy following.

Smoky was right with the bunch from the start, he stampeded with the
leader and once in his life it never came to him to wonder what it was
all about, he just run and plum forgot to investigate.

Tails was a popping as the horses slid off the mountain, jumped off
ledges and sailed acrost washouts. Loosened rocks bumped against
boulders, boulders crashed into dead hanging timber and pretty soon a
landslide brought up the rear, but even that was too slow. The ponies
and the cowboy behind 'em hit the bottom of the canyon first, and when
the slide reached that spot and filled the canyon with ten feet of
boulders, timber, and dirt, the whole wild bunch was half a mile away
and kicking up dust on the foothills at the edge of the flat.

It was away out on the flat and where the dust wasn't so thick that
Smoky took a back slant over his withers and got his first sight of
the human. The way his mammy and the rest of the bunch acted, the way
they run and tried to dodge or leave that human behind sure put the
impression in Smoky's mind that here was a different kind of animal,
the kind that no horse would stop to fight or argue with but instead
run away from, if it was possible.

But it didn't seem possible, for the rider was still right on their
tails, and stayed there till he drove 'em into the long wings of big
log corrals which to Smoky seemed like trees growing sideways instead
of up and down. But the little horse knowed that there was no going
thru them trees. He stuck close as he could to his mammy's side, she
and the bunch milled around for a spell around the big pen, the big
gate closed on 'em and wild eyed the bunch turned and faced a bow
legged, leather covered, sunburnt human.

Smoky shivered as he watched that strange crethure get off one of his
kin, a horse just like any of the bunch him and his mammy was running
with, all excepting for that funny hunk of leather on his back; pretty
soon the human fumbled around a while and then that hunk of leather
was pulled off, the horse was turned loose, shook himself, and walked
towards Smoky and the bunch.

The colt was stary-eyed and never missed a thing, and soon as the loose
horse came his way he took a sniff at his sweaty hide for some kind of
a clue as to just what had been setting on him all thru that long run.
The sniff left him more puzzled than ever, and forgetting the horse he
put all his attention on the crethure which was standing up and on two
legs.

There'd been a lot of lightning up in the mountains where Smoky had
been ranging that summer, he'd seen some fires up there too. That
lightning and them fires was great puzzles to the colt, and when he
seen the human make a swift move with a paw, and then seen a fire in
one of them paws, and later on, smoke coming out of the mouth, it all
made things more than ever impossible for him to figger out. He stood
petrified, and watched.

Pretty soon, them same paws that'd held the fire, reached down and
picked up a coil of rope, a loop was made, and then the human walked
towards him and the bunch. At that move the bunch tore around the
corral and raised the dust; then Smoky heard the hiss of a rope as it
sailed over past him and the loop settled on one of the ponies' heads.
The pony was stopped and led out to the hunk of leather on the ground,
it was cinched on him the same as it'd been on the other horse, and
when the human climbed on is when Smoky first set eyes on one of his
kind in a fight with the two-legged crethure.

It was a great sight to the colt. He'd seen some of his bunch play
and kick often, and he'd done a lot of that himself, but he'd never
seen any get in the position and tear things up the way that pony was
doing. He knowed that pony was fighting, bucking for all he was worth,
and doing his daggonedest to shed that sticking and ill built wonder
that was on top of him. Smoky watched and shook when he heard the pony
beller. He'd never heard one of his kind make that noise before, and
he knowed without wondering just what the beller meant. He remembered
doing near the same that time when the cayote had nipped him in the ham
strings.

Smoky's eyes was blazing as he watched on thru the fight and the pony's
hard jumps dwindled down to crowhops and then a stop. He watched the
man as he got off the horse, opened the gate, lead the horse out and
after closing it, watched him ride on and out of sight. It wasn't
till then that he came back to himself and it come to his mind to
investigate the kind of place it was that cooped him in. He rubbed
noses with his mammy and went to scouting around the big corral. Long
strands of mane which had caught in slivers of the logs told him
there'd been lots of horses here before, sniffs at the ground and more
sniffs at pieces of calves' ears that'd been cut while earmarking
reminded him of the critter he'd seen while he was only a couple of
weeks old. Many calves had been branded in the big corral, and with all
them signs which was plain enough reading to Smoky it only made him all
the more suspicious and spooky.

He was trying to get up enough nerve to go near and take a sniff at a
pair of chaps hanging on the corral gate, when he noticed a dust, and
under it a band of horses being hazed towards the corral he was in.
With that band was a half dozen riders or more, and the sight of them
made Smoky high-tail to his mammy's side in a hurry. Once there, he
took in all that could be seen and watched the riders drive the horses
thru the gate and turn' em in with his bunch. There was a lot of dust,
milling around, and confusion, for there was now near two hundred head
of horses in the one big corral, but to Smoky all that company was
mighty welcome, they meant more protection, he could hide better in
that big bunch and be able to always keep some of the horses between
him and them two-legged crethures.

He kept hid as well as he could while the bunch milled around the
corral, and in a short while, as he watched thru the horses' legs, he
seen where on the outside and close to the pen a fire was started,
long bars of iron was passed thru between the logs and one end of 'em
sticking in the hot blaze. Then, pretty soon a commotion was stirred,
and the bunch went to racing around the corral and snorting. Many was
cut out into another corral, till there was only about fifty left,
mostly young colts about Smoky's age, and a few quiet old mares.

Smoky had no chance to hide, and as he seen the bow-legged humans
uncoil long ropes and heard the loops whiz past him at the speed of a
bullet, terror struck in his heart and he was ready to leave the earth.
He heard some of the colts squeal as they was snared, throwed, and tied
down, and that sure didn't help to ease the fear that'd took hold of
him.

He was doing his best and keeping as far out of reach as he could but
it seemed like them crethures was everywhere, and no place where them
long ropes couldn't reach. It was during one of his wild scrambles for
a get away that Smoky heard the close hiss of a rope, and like a snake
coiled itself around both his front legs, he let out a squeal, and in
another second he was flat to the ground and four feet tied up.

Smoky figgered the end of the world had come as he felt the human touch
him, and if it'd been in his blood to faint away, he'd a done it easy,
but as it was he never missed a thing. He seen one of the crethures run
towards him with a hot iron, smelled burning hair and hide--it was his
own that burned, but it felt cool and there was no pain, for he was at
the stage where the searing iron was no worse than a touch from the
human hand. But there's an end to all, whether it's good or bad, and
pretty soon, Smoky felt the ropes come off his legs, a boost to let
him know that all was over, and when he stood up and run back to the
bunch, there was a mark on his slick hide that was there for life,--as
the brand read, the little horse belonged to the Rocking R outfit.

It was all a mighty great relief to Smoky and the other colts when the
branding come to an end, the bunch all put back together, and when the
colts found their mammies all was turned out and free again, free to go
back to the high mountain range, or run on the flats.

Smoky's mammy took the lead, and after the rest of the bunch was thru
parleying with the strange horses they joined in with her and the colt
and all strung out for the foothills. The next day they all was up in
high country again and everything of the day before was forgotten,
forgotten, all excepting with Smoky and the other little colts. They
still remembered some, on account that it had all been mighty new to
'em, and besides, the sting of the fresh brand was there on their left
thigh to remind.

But as the days went by, and new things happened right along to draw
Smoky's interest in life, the happenings at the corral was gradually
left behind like a bad dream; the burn healed quick and left a neat
brand all of which growed right with him.

Fall came, skies clouded and the rains was getting cold, and each time
it cleared up again it was a little colder, the sun wasn't making as
high a circle and was steady losing some of its heat, and when after
a few mornings' frost the skies clouded again and the wind blowed a
light snow over the high pinnacles, the bunch gradually ranged lower
and lower, till, when they reached the foothills and finally the flats,
the first of the winter had set in and it was time for 'em to drift to
their winter range.

Their winter range was low ridges and benches that raised up in the
middle of the prairie. There was steep ravines where willows and
cottonwoods growed in big patches, the shelter of them was mighty fine
when the cold north winds blowed and the howling blizzard made every
living thing hunt a hole. Tall grass was there too and could always be
reached by pawing for it. In quiet winter days, when the sun came out
and the wind went down the bunch could always leave their shelter and
find places on the ridges where the winds had swept the snow away, and
where the grass was in plain sight.

Drifting acrost that flat open country and investigating that new
winter territory had kept Smoky's eyes, ears, and nostrils mighty busy.
There'd been a lot to keep him looking, listening, and sniffing. Every
buffalo wallow, coulee, and rise had kept his senses on hair trigger
edge, and when the first snow had come, he'd enjoyed that too. It made
him want to buck and play as it fell on his withers and rump, and along
with the cold weather that'd turned the range brown and then white he
was finding more ambition to keep on the jump. He wasn't looking for
shade no more.

If Smoky minded the cold he sure didn't show it, and if you could of
felt his warm hide and seen how thick the hair had growed on it, and
how long, you'd never wondered why it was that the cold raw winds never
fazed him. Mother Nature had seen to that and brought on the winter
gradual, till, when the time come for it to set in, Smoky was well
prepared, he was packing a natural fur coat on a good thick hide, and
with an inch of tallow for a lining, and along with the rich, thick
blood which he kept in good circulation he was mighty able to compete
with the snows and freezing weather, and was never found to hunt
shelter till the blizzard blowed over the ridges from the north.

He pawed snow for his feed that winter, for it had been quite a few
months before when he found that his mammy's milk wasn't quite enough,
and later turned out to be just a taste, and finally, she give him to
understand that he was weaned. There was no arguing with her, and Smoky
knowed better than try, so he pawed and hunted for grass like a big
horse. He et snow and could stay away from water as long as any of the
bunch, and even tho he lost some of his roundness thru the worst of the
winter, you couldn't of noticed it on account of his hair being so long.

Being that Smoky was still quite a privileged character it helped him
considerable thru them long winter months, if he'd see some big horse
dig down into a special good grassy spot, he'd take advantage of his
standing and chase the big horse away. He looked mighty wicked as he
put his ears down, showed his teeth, and delivered a side kick, and the
big horse would _act_ scared to death, and get away from the dangerous
Smoky in a hurry. There was only one in the bunch that wouldn't scare
worth a bit, and that was his mammy, he could paw in the same hole
with her and maybe steal a bunch of grass right from under her nose,
but there was no chasing _her_ away, most likely there was no such
intentions in Smoky's mind anyhow, for the little horse did think an
awful lot of that mammy of his, and even tho she never played with him,
and even nipped him for some things he'd do, he knowed if a showdown
ever come she'd fight to a finish for him.

So, as the snows piled high and the ravines filled with drifts, Smoky
went on and passed the hard of the winter in near the same carefree
reckless way he'd passed the summer before. Of course, pawing for his
feed the way he had to was taking some of his energy, but he'd manage
to reserve some for play, and many is the time when you'd see the bunch
a pawing all intent to reaching the grass, you'd see Smoky tearing up
clouds of light snow and a playing for all he was worth. Other colts
would join him, and pretty soon the young ones would have the white
scenery all tracked the same as if a thousand head of horses had
stampeded thru.

The winter wore on that way, no events came to shake the quiet and
peace of that part of the range, only, one day a rider had showed up
against the skyline. Smoky had been the only one to see him on account
he was a little ways from the bunch and where he could see around a
point. With the sight of that rider Smoky remembered ropes, a corral
and human hands, and he sashayed back to the bunch fast as his legs
could carry him.

Finally, the first sign of spring came, Smoky couldn't appreciate it
very much on account that the warm winds which was starting the snow
to melting only left him weak and lazy. His blood hadn't started to
thin down as yet, and for the first short spell in his life, he had no
hankering to crowhop around and play.

Then a few weeks later the bare earth begin to show in big spots and on
the sunny side of the buttes green grass begin to shoot up. That new
green grass tasted mighty good to Smoky, it tasted so good that the dry
feed he'd wintered on and which could now be got without pawing for,
was only stepped on in hunting for them first blades of green. Nothing
but that would do, and as it was still scarce and hard to find that
early in the year he covered a lot of territory and got very little
feed.

But the rest of the bunch was afflicted the same way, the long dry
grass wasn't good enough no more, and consequences is the bunch lost
some weight. But Mother Nature was on hand there again, she knowed
that's what the bunch needed to condition 'em for the change of
season, and sure enough, pretty soon the warm weather didn't leave 'em
so drowsy no more, and as the grass kept a growing, and finally got
to be everywhere, on the ridges as on the flats, the bunch perked up
again; the long winter hair was loosening and big hunks of it was left
wherever they rolled.

Smoky's winter coat had faded to a brown at the first sign of spring,
and now that the warmer weather had come and green grass was a plenty
there was another color showed where he'd shed off the long hair. It
was what we call "mouse color" only maybe darker, no more of the slick
black hair that decorated his hide the summer before could be seen, the
change of color had showed itself around his ears and flanks but it
wasn't till winter came that the real change had took place and turned
him to a grayish mouse color.

His head and legs was a little darker than his body and showed brown,
and with that little blaze face of his a looming up, he made a mighty
pretty picture, a picture of the kind once you see you never forget;
for Smoky was perfect any way you looked at him and it seemed like as
you sized him up that the other of his kind hadn't been played square
with and some of their good points stole away so as Smoky would be the
perfect little horse.

Smoky had never thought of his good looks and strong body, his good
looks was only a sign of his good health, he felt it all and used it
to the limit for his own benefit and for whatever fun his strength
and energy could afford him. That never lacked, and if he layed
down it was seldom because he was tired, it was more thru a hint from
Mother Nature for him to hold on a while and store up on life and more
strength.

The spring rains came and went, and each time after each spell of
moisture the grass was a little taller and the country greener, the sun
kept a getting warmer too and some days was already hot.

It was during one of these hot days that Smoky's mother disappeared.
Smoky had been snoozing in the shade of a creek bank and it wasn't till
quite a while after he got up and started grazing that he noticed she
was gone. The bunch had been drifting back for the summer range and
was at the foothills of the big range, the big flat below was an easy
place to spot any moving object on, but Smoky couldn't find hide nor
hair of that mammy of his, he trotted around the bunch and, nickering,
investigated for a spell. She couldn't be found.

He took another look at the country around, and nickering in kind of
wonder, he went to grazing again. Somehow he wasn't fidgety as he
should of been, maybe he had a hunch that her disappearing that way was
necessary and that all was hunkydory. Anyway Smoky never missed any
sleep, or feed, or play while she was gone, things went on just the
same, and the little horse's hide was getting slicker every day.

A few days passed, and then one morning the big buckskin horse that was
still in the bunch perked up his ears, nickered, and loped out towards
the flat. A horse was out there and coming towards the bunch, alongside
the horse was a little moving object.

Smoky and the bunch stood in their tracks and watched. Pretty soon
Smoky noticed something familiar in that lone horse coming towards
him, but that little object a tagging along puzzled him, and head up,
he trotted out a ways to investigate. Then it all came to him, for the
lone horse was none other than his mammy.

He lit out on a run a nickering as he went till he got to within a few
feet of her, and then he got a slant at the object a tagging alongside,
a brand new little wobblety legged colt it was, shining black, and
awful timid at the sight of so many strangers. It was Smoky's new
little brother.

Smoky couldn't keep his nose off the baby, and his mammy had to cock
one ear back at him the same as to say "careful, Son," but Smoky was
careful, and as his mammy went on to join the bunch, he followed and
the big buckskin brought up the rear. From then on Smoky ranked second.

[Illustration: And as his mammy went to join the bunch, he followed and
the big buckskin bought up the rear. From then on Smoky ranked second.]




                              CHAPTER III

                         WHERE THE TRAILS FORK


Middle summer had come, the day was hot and still; even up amongst the
high peaks and where the snow was making a last stand the heat was
strong, for the sun was shooting straight down and the crags could
give no more shade. Up on a rocky trail of that country a small bunch
of range horses was drifting one behind the other and following the
leader,--the leader was Smoky's mammy, the new little black colt right
at her heels and next the blaze faced, mouse colored, yearling, Smoky.
A little further back was a big buckskin horse and there followed eight
or ten others which made up the rest of the bunch.

They all trailed along seemed like headed for nowheres in particular.
They passed under wind-twisted trees and right on thru the shade they'd
give. Cool streams wasn't even sniffed at, and the long stems of grass
that was everywhere wasn't at all noticed, they was all just drifting
and maybe only hitting out for another special good part of the high
range.--A feller watching 'em would of figgered that something or
other had started 'em on the move, maybe a rider had been spotted that
morning which had kettled 'em into a run, or else cougars might of been
too numerous for comfort.

The little bunch kept a trailing along till they came to where the
trail branched and the leader took the lower one, the little black colt
and all the rest followed, all excepting the mouse colored yearling.
The upper trail had drawed that one's interest, and nothing would do
but what he had to investigate it for a ways. He kept his nose on the
ground as he went and sniffed for clues of anything that might be
of interest to him, he could see the bunch below and he figgered on
cutting across to 'em soon as his curiosity was satisfied.

Ahead of him a ways and above the trail was a big granite boulder a
good ten feet high. A scrub mahogany had found root in a crack of the
big rock and was spreading its branches well over it and making a good
shade. In that shade and mighty hard to notice, was an object, a long,
flat, dark buckskin object, which looked a lot like part of the rock.
It was stretched out full length and seemed like without life only
maybe for the tip of its long, round tail which was jerking up and
down. The round head raised an inch at the sound of hoofs on the rocky
trail, the ears flattened and the yellow eyes turned jet black at the
sight of Smoky, the mouse colored yearling.

Smoky was coming right on the trail and would pass to within a couple
of feet of the big rock that was the mountain lion's game hunting
perch, many a deer he'd pounced onto and killed from that perch; and
not far away from that spot was bones scattered around which showed
where he'd drug his victims and et his fill. Wolves, cayotes, and other
varmints had cleaned up what the big lion would leave and the result
was white bones a shining to the sun.

The lion had a big territory which he claimed as his, but in all that
rough country there was no better place than the one he was now getting
ready to spring from, he'd got meat from that spot when he failed at
others, and the trail he overlooked was tracked with many hoofs, hoofs
of all the kind that ranged up there,--it was a main trail to a main
pass.

Why Smoky's mother didn't take that trail can't be explained much; may
be it was instinct that warned her, and then again she might of got a
glimpse of the tall rock and past experience made her turn to the left,
but anyway she and her young colt and the rest of the bunch was safe
and had left Smoky till he was thru investigating and ready to catch up
with 'em.

Smoky kept on a coming and edging closer to the rock, he nosed every
twig and stone along the trail till he got to within a few feet of
the spot where the lion would spring. The lion wasn't a stretched out
shadow no more. He still looked like part of the rock and fitted pretty
well with the stump of the scrub mahogany, but he was in a position
that sure tallied up with all what was about to happen. He was ready,
and still as the rock he was on, and the quiver of his long tail was
a plenty to show that his wiry frame and brain was sure together and
intent on one thing.

Another foot ahead and Smoky would be seeing his last of daylight, the
colt had one leg raised to make that last step when there's a rattling
buzz comes from the foot of the rock, a four foot rattlesnake stretched
out and reaches for Smoky's nose and that one leg which was raised to
go forward went back instead. It was all that saved him.

The lion had figgered on his victim a jumping to one side at his leap,
and he'd allowed for that, but the way it happened this time was that
the snake caused Smoky to jump away just as he'd started which was a
little too soon according to the lion's figgering, and what's more
Smoky went to the wrong direction about a foot with the result that he
just got his claws full of Smoky's mane and no more. He scrambled in
mid air and done his best to get a hold in Smoky's neck but even with
all the action he put in his trying he struck mostly air, and then hard
ground.

[Illustration: The lion had figgered on his victim a jumping to one
side at his leap, and he'd allowed for that.]

Smoky never waited to see if that flying shadow of sharp claws was
after him or not, he'd started at the sound of the rattler and had kept
a moving mighty fast ever since. A few feet of drop in the scenery only
helped him make more speed and the short cut from the trail he'd left
to the trail his mammy and the bunch was on was covered in no time.

He lit in the bunch a running, and the bunch getting a hint from his
wild eyed actions that all wasn't well started a running too and for a
ways they all went as tho the devil was after 'em.

But the devil (if that ain't too mild a name for the lion) wasn't after
'em. He knowed the colt had too much speed for him and never even
thought of following him, and as it was he was just a lashing himself
with his long tail and mad clear thru at the thought of missing such a
nice fat yearling colt as Smoky was.

From that day on Smoky dodged high rocks unless he could see the top
of 'em, pine trees with stout lower limbs had him a circling too, or
any other place where a lion could perch on and spring from. The little
horse was gradually getting so he was satisfied to be more with the
bunch and not do so much investigating, besides he'd got first hand
acquaintance with most all that prowled the range, and everything in
general was getting to be less of a puzzle to him.

It all kept a getting to be less of a puzzle to him till finally there
come a time when Smoky got so he thought he knowed it all. He figgered
he had the world by the tail and with a downhill push. Like all the
other colts of his age he was just where conceit had the best of him,
he got strong headed and full of mischief, and then's when the older
horses figgered him to be a regular pest and begin knocking on him.

[Illustration: He got strong headed and full of mischief, and then's
when the older horses figgered him to be a regular pest.]

He was getting to be of a size that could stand knocks too. They all
took turns at him and pounded on his ribs every chance they had thru
the rest of that summer and tried to set him where he belonged; but it
was slow work and Smoky was still getting away with some of the bluffs
when the first snows came. He was ornery all that winter, and even
tho none of the horses would let him steal the grass they pawed up he
aggravated 'em a lot by making 'em think he would; and when they'd kick
at him, and miss, there was some more about his actions that sure let
em know he was getting away with something.

Then one day a strange horse showed up on the skyline and joined the
bunch. A strange horse is always sort of timid when first joining a
new bunch that way, and Smoky took advantage of that to show there was
at least one he had buffaloed,--he run the stranger around and around
and kept a nipping him on the rump till the old pony was on the point
of leaving and hunt new territory. That sport lasted off and on for a
few days, and then one day the older horse turned and lit into Smoky.
There was no battle, for Smoky was just running a bluff, and at the
first turn of the events he evaporated and kept on evaporating till the
stranger got cooled down a bit. After that Smoky kept his distance and
acted willing to let the stranger stay with the bunch.

The winter wore on that way, and as Smoky was met hard at every ornery
thing he'd do it all got to finally leave an impression on him and he
gradually lost _some_ of his conceit and hard headedness. But Spring
came, other seasons and all kinds of weather followed and it wasn't
till Smoky was a three year old that he really come anywheres living
up to good range horse etiquette. There was so much life wrapped up in
that pony's hide that it was mighty hard for him to settle down and
behave, and even as a three year old he sometimes had to bust out and
do things that wasn't at all proper and which made the old horses set
their ears back and show their teeth.

       *       *       *       *       *

The start of Smoky's third year was all to his favor,--the spring rains
was warmer than on average, the green grass shot up half an inch to
the day and more than met up with the hard to satisfy appetite which
was his, consequences is, when he shed off his long winter coat he was
slicker and rounder than ever and looked like he was wrapped up in fine
mouse colored silk. His blazed face loomed up snow white and to match
his trim ankles. He was a picture to make any cowboy miss a few heart
beats as he sometimes raced acrost the prairie sod and with head and
tail up showed off the qualities that stuck out at his every move.

But to the bunch, all them qualities and good points of Smoky's was
lost and not at all noticed, his mammy or any of the others would of
thought just as much of him if he was just an ordinary horse or even an
ill built scrub. They'd all liked him better if he wasn't so ornery and
didn't need so much convincing, for Smoky was getting to be of a size
and temper along with it where it was mighty hard for some to try to
eddicate him and _show_ that they could.

His eddication kept on tho for there was still a few that packed a
convincing hoof, but them few was dwindling down fast and Smoky was
steady getting where he could hold his own with most any of 'em, till
finally, and after many showdowns there came a time when there was only
two left in the bunch that he wouldn't stop and argue with, them two
was his mammy and the big buckskin.

Smoky felt some superior and mighty proud then for a while, and it's
a good thing he was a little wiser and quieter and not so full of
mischief no more or he'd sure dealt them ponies misery; as it was he
was now willing to leave them alone if they'd do the same by him.

Things went on that way for some time and as the days went by, the
bunch was getting to be more willing to accept Smoky as a full size
range horse with brains according. None tried to eddicate him no more,
and if once in a while he showed young blood and some foolishness they
was all careful to overlook it, of course Smoky was wise enough to keep
away from his mammy and the buckskin at them times.

Peace was with the little bunch, all had some understanding and every
horse knowed his ground. It was all so peaceful that Smoky felt it and
it all begin to wear on him to the point where he felt like tackling
the big buckskin, just to start something--then relief came one day and
scattered that peaceful monotony from hell to breakfast.

It all happened as the little bunch strung out, was heading for water,
Smoky's mammy was in the lead as usual, and she was the first to turn
the point of a ridge and find herself to within a few yards of a big
black stud. Smoky was close second on the sight, and somehow as he
snorted at the long-maned thick-jawed black a hunch came to him that
peace had come to a sudden end.

He stood in his tracks kinda doubtful as to what to do and watched
the black cloud of horseflesh, he'd let the stallion make the first
false move--Proud as a peacock came the black, mane and tail a waving
and stepping high, his little bunch of mares and colts had stayed
back at the first sight of the strange ones and was now watching the
proceedings of the meeting.

That meeting impressed the young horses a whole lot, the white of their
eyes showed with interest as the stud came up to within a few paces
of the new bunch, stopped, and with a powerful neck bowed to a half
circle, ears pointed ahead, and eyes a shining, stood and sized up the
strangers.

He'd had plenty of experience in meeting strange bunches that way
before which all left him kinda cautious, for many a time he'd left
quicker than he'd come and lost some hide to an older stud what was
more up to the game of fighting, and he soon learned that it wasn't a
wise idea to ram into a strange bunch and go to appropriating mares
without first investigating what kind of a leader that bunch had.

He'd got wised up in many ways thru them meetings, and he learned to
be some careful. He'd also learned to handle his hoofs and teeth till
there hadn't been any stud on that range that'd been able to whip him
the last three years--he'd evened up scores.

Smoky hadn't moved, and as the stud still kept a standing in one spot
with no indication of wanting to start anything, he got restless.
Pretty soon it came to his mind that the stallion was leary of starting
anything.  It was a big mistake, but Smoky'd had no way of knowing
better. The big buckskin did know better and if Smoky had noticed, he'd
seen him out there on the far side of the bunch, and willing to keep
neutral.

A move from the black stud decided Smoky. He'd stepped close to his
mammy and nostril to nostril was exchanging sniffs with her when she
let out a squeal and struck at him, all of which the stallion didn't
pay any attention to. But right about then Smoky landed on him, or, _at
him_, for his striking front feet and bared sharp teeth missed him,
missed him just enough to be a clean miss.

Smoky had never reckoned with the fighting qualities of a stallion, and
he couldn't figger out how it was he'd struck just thin air when he
was so sure his enemy had been right there in front of him and within
easy reaching distance, and what's more that puzzled him was that the
stallion never offered to show fight when he landed at him so furious,
instead he'd just got out of the way of his rush, kept his ears ahead,
and went on sizing up the bunch the same as if nothing had happened.
Smoky felt like he hadn't even been noticed, and the actions of the
stud had said plainer than words "fool kid."

A swift kick in the ribs couldn't of done any better towards putting
Smoky down a peg or two, and that simple quick move of the stud's went
a long ways to show what could of happened if he'd been in mind to
fight. All that left Smoky kinda uncertain as to how to proceed, he
didn't know whether to go back and try it again or let things rest for
a spell till another chance showed up.

In the meantime the black stud had found out that there was none in
that bunch he'd need to watch, and head down to the ground, ears back,
he started cutting out the geldings, keeping the mares and fillies to
put in with the bunch he already had. That was a harder job than it
might sound here, for none of the geldings wanted to be cut out of the
bunch they'd been with so long, and even tho they went out easy enough
they'd turn back as the stud would be cutting out another and would
have to be headed off and cut out again and again.

Then the big buckskin which had been neutral all this time finally got
riled up at being separated from the mares that way and when the stud
headed for him he stood his ground. A few seconds more and there was
buckskin and black hair a sailing in the air, then hoofs a pounding
away which would of kept up with machine-gun fire for speed, only the
pounding wasn't sounding so sharp it was hitting something solid, and
there wasn't many misses.

Finally out of the dust that was stirred there came a streak of
buckskin and right close to it was a streak of black, away from the
herd they went, and pretty soon the black stud came back shaking his
head the same as to let every horse know that he wasn't going to stand
for no foolishness.

There was one more to be put out of the bunch, he was that mouse
colored gelding, Smoky. He'd got in while the stud was chasing away the
buckskin, he'd stood alongside his mammy and watched the fight, and
there was a light in his eyes that showed he was ready to start another
battle if it was necessary, but he sure wasn't going to be put out
without he was convinced it could be done,--he wasn't built that way.

The stallion spots him there and never went thru no preliminaries nor
tried to scare him out with just a look, he dived right into him and
Smoky met him halfways. That battle was short and wicked and Smoky
managed to land some good hard kicks, kicks that'd knocked the wind out
of any ordinary horse and sent 'em a sprawling; but the stallion wasn't
no ordinary horse and them kicks only shook him a little and made him
all the madder. He'd fought too many hard battles to let any gelding
faze him and besides he was in the habit of winning.

His chance came when Smoky turned to land a couple more hard ones.
The stud was broadside to the gelding, and as the hard ones came, he
just reared up out of the reach of 'em, made a big lunge to one side
and coming down he made a quick grab and fastened his teeth in Smoky's
withers. When Smoky pulled away and the stud's teeth snapped together
there was some of his silky hide between 'em.

Smoky squealed and kicked some more, then he whirled and faced the stud
figgering on doing some damage with teeth and front hoofs. Just about
then the stud whirled too and planted his two hind hoofs smack bang
into Smoky's ribs. There was an echo which sounded like a steam engine
ramming into a stone wall, that echo was followed with a mighty grunt
as Smoky was lifted off his feet and throwed out a ways to a staggering
standstill.

Smoky was in a daze, his vision was dim, and maybe it was all instinct
that warned him of the dark cloud that's turned and was now a tearing
down on him, anyway something made him move in a hurry, all the
strength that was left in him was used to make distance away from the
black devil which now looked to Smoky like a big centipede, it had so
many legs.

His life depended in the speed he could make, and Smoky was running,
running like he'd never run before, it seemed like there was no shaking
the mad stud, and just when he was on the point of giving in and make
a last stand for his life that destroying hunk of horseflesh left
him--When Smoky stopped, looked back and seen the stud high-tail it
back to the mares he had no hankering to follow, he was convinced.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next few days that followed was mighty aimless to Smoky, him and
the big buckskin had formed a pardnership in that time and the two
wandered around like they was lost and didn't care where they went.
They covered a lot of territory, passed up a lot of good grassy hollows
and shady places but they kept a drifting on. They grazed as they
drifted and natural like followed up the canyons and crossed over the
high passes that'd been the summer range of Smoky's mammy and the
bunch.

They came acrost other little bunches, but it seemed like in each of
'em there was a wild-eyed thick-jawed stud come out ready to kick the
daylight out of 'em if any symptoms of them wanting to trail in with
the bunch was showed.

In their roaming around they passed other geldings which like
themselves had been kicked out of the stud bunches; the meeting with
them was just plain "how-dedo's" and each and all passed on and headed
their own wandering way.--All would be hunkydory again for the buckskin
if he could find another bunch to run with where there was mares and
little colts. He had a mighty strong failing for the little fellers
and most any bunch would do if there was only a few of them in, but
with Smoky, it was his mammy he missed most, his brother, and the other
colts he'd growed up with.

No other bunch would do as well, and the nicker he'd send echoing
acrost canyons and over ridges every once in a while was just for them
certain few.

Smoky's mammy had no choice when that black stallion came and scattered
them out to his liking that way. She was made to join that little bunch
of his and she knowed better than try to do different; she knowed she'd
only lose some hide in any attempt to get away and that in the long run
she'd have to do as he pointed out.

She was wise to the range and the ways of her kind, and even tho she
was as strong for Smoky as Smoky was for her she didn't miss him so
much as he did her. She felt in a way that he was now big and mighty
able to take care of himself, and then there was other youngsters which
called for all her attention. But it was different with Smoky, she was
his mammy and there was none other that could take her place. He'd
growed up at her side and even tho other little colts had come she was
and always would be the mother he knowed when he was wobblety legged
and needed her.

Then one day and as time had wore on in lonesomeness that way, there
came a short break in the monotony which helped Smoky forget some. Him
and the buckskin had run acrost a little bunch of mares,--there was
some little colts in the bunch, and a stud, a young stud.

The big buckskin sized up the stud the same as he'd sized all the
others he'd met, and as this young feller came up full of pride and
confidence to meet the two strangers, the big buckskin found a flaw in
him,--the flaw was nothing more or less than just _youth_, he showed
it in every move he made and every action.--From past experience the
buckskin had figgered youth and ignorance to go together, and that's
what made it interesting.

Interesting by the fact that thru youth and ignorance the young
stallion wouldn't maybe be able to compete against the fighting ability
of the buckskin, the younger horse hadn't as yet fought many battles,
that the buckskin could feel at a glance of him. He didn't turn away
like he'd done before,--as the stallion came on he just stood in his
tracks and watched him. Smoky was doing the same.

There's bowed necks as the three touch nostrils, there's some squealing
and striking and then a kick is planted,--the young stud had started
things.

[Illustration: There's bowed necks as the three touch nostrils.]

Smoky had caught the kick, which left him out a ways. In the meantime
the buckskin followed up the lead and went at it from there. It was all
a mighty fair exchange from the start, kicks and bites was averaging
pretty well on both parties, and for a young horse that chestnut stud
was sure doing well. All might of come to a draw and both fighters
might of quit about the same time, if it hadn't been for Smoky.

Smoky which had got to be pretty thick with the buckskin and had been
a good pardner of his thru their lonesome roamings found it mighty
natural like wanting to help when trouble came that way; besides he was
holding a grudge against the stud for kicking him the way he did, and
all them things together kinda had him worked up to mix in.

His chance came as the chestnut whirled to plant a hard one on the
buckskin's ribs, there was only a few feet between Smoky and the
stud right then and double action started from there. The stud felt
hard hitting hoofs and teeth a getting him from both sides and the
punishment he received all at once wouldn't of been worse if he'd a lit
in a stack of wild cats.

It was then that it come to his mind, and sudden, that he should let
up on the fighting and start to do some running if he wanted to keep
hisself all in one piece. Smoky and the buckskin kept a pounding on
him and a helping along on the good hunch till finally it was all made
mighty plain. The chestnut picked himself up as best and quick as he
could and made a leap out of reach of the too many wicked hoofs and
teeth, and tore up the earth for a change of scenery, the two pardners
done their best to escort him on his way.

But as that day came to an end and as the sun passed over and beyond
the blue ridges Smoky and his pardner could see a lone horse outlined
against the sky, the chestnut was following. He followed 'em and the
bunch they'd chased him out of for three days, and once he started
a fight to win back what he'd lost, he just lost more hide and won
nothing but another boost out of that territory.--Smoky and the big
buckskin had handed him the same medicine another stud had handed them.

The days that followed was mighty peaceful to the big buckskin, and
Smoky seemed some contented too, he was gradually getting used to being
away from his mother and new young fillies and colts he was running
with made it all a heap easier to forget. Then again, the knocks he'd
got ever since that day when things had been so peaceful with his
mammy, when he just figgered he'd have to start something to bust up
the monotony of that peace, all took the mischief out of him. The fight
with the black stallion, the lonesome ramblings with the buckskin, and
the other fights with the chestnut stud all helped eddicate him and
shape him into a full sized, serious thinking gelding. It didn't take
so much to keep him contented no more, and somehow or another he was
seeing a heap more in life.

That's the way things stood with Smoky that summer, him and the
buckskin ranged high up in the mountains with the little bunch of mares
and colts, they all snoozed and grazed thru the days and done the same
thru the nights. A little play was brought on once in a while by some
of the young colts and Smoky and the buckskin was always the steady
victims of them. Them two older horses was colts themselves at them
times and the way they'd all nip one another and then sashay around
hell bent for election, a human would wonder at the care Smoky and the
buckskin was taking so that the colts would feel winners in all they'd
start.

Summer passed, the grass had gradually turned to a yellow brown and
the leaves of the aspens begin banking up on the edges of the streams,
fall had come, and one day the bunch started a grazing steady lower and
lower till a few days later the foothills was reached. It was there
that Smoky took the lead and headed for the winter range where his
mammy had put him thru that first year, the big buckskin followed till,
glancing back over his withers he noticed that the mares and colts had
left off and branched out another direction. The buckskin stood in his
tracks, watched Smoky line out straight ahead and then looked back at
the mares again. For the time being he wasn't sure wether to go on with
his pardner or turn back to the bunch. It was hard for him to decide,
he wanted to go with Smoky and still them little colts sure had a
mighty holt on his heart strings, it was just about as he was doing the
hardest figgering when one of them little fellers came out of the bunch
a ways and nickered for him. That little nicker decided things for the
buckskin, he answered it and loped back to join with the other little
fellers and the mares.

Smoky went on straight ahead. Maybe he was thinking strong, thinking
that he'd see his mammy again on that winter range. Anyway, it never
come to him to look back and see if the bunch was following him, and
finally when it did come to him that he was drifting on alone, he
stopped and looked around in a sort of vacant stare, his instinct had
been controlling him and was taking him back to his home range, but
when he found himself alone that way it all left him surprised at first
and then doubtful as to what to do. He was mighty attached to that
buckskin, the little colts, and the bunch in general.

He looked at the far away hills of his range and he seemed like to
think on the subject for quite a spell, then of a sudden his head went
up, a loud nicker went out and away in the distance he could hear an
answer,--the answer had come from his pardner, the buckskin.

Smoky nickered again and loped back to the bunch. He'd come to feel
that it didn't matter so much which range he wintered on, he was a big
horse now, and a few ridges to the north or south of that range he was
raised in didn't make much difference.--An old mare had took the lead
and from then on Smoky just followed side by side with the buckskin. A
little colt nipped him in the flanks, and all was well.




                              CHAPTER IV

                           THE END OF A ROPE


Snow layed heavy on the range that winter, grass was hard to get at,
and the little bunch of ponies that tracked the low hills which raised
up on the prairies was finding themselves doing a lot of rustling and
pawing, and getting very little feed. Bunches of cattle followed 'em
wherever they went and rooted with their nose for the few blades of dry
grass them horses had pawed the snow off of and left.

Hay couldn't be bought that winter and the stockmen found themselves
where they had to take a chance and pull their cattle thru with
whatever little hay the dry summer before could let 'em have. Cattle
had been in fine shape that fall, but as the snow kept a piling and a
drifting and covering up the feed the tallow kept a dwindling away from
under the critters' hides and lean ribs begin to show more and more
thru the long winter hair.

Then came a time as the blizzards blowed and regardless of what all the
stockmen done (which was to the limit of what any human can do) when
mounds of white begin to show here and there in that part of the range.
Underneath them white mounds was the dead carcass of a critter. Some
was dug up by the varmints, cayotes was licking their chops, and to
make things worse, there appeared three big grey wolves on the skyline
one day.

Smoky and the big buckskin horse was the first to see the wolves. Their
ears was towards 'em as the three outlaws of the range trotted along
and then stopped to look at the horses.

Smoky had never seen a wolf before, but the big old buckskin had seen
too many of 'em and had scars to show for his meetings with the kind.
He let a loud snort at the sight of the three grey shapes and from that
Smoky got a hunch that these was more to be reckoned with than the
cayotes he'd chased when he was a yearling. He had a hankering to go
and give them a chase too, but the nervous way the buckskin was acting
kinda warned him that it'd be best for him to stick with the bunch.

The weak and dying cattle is what had really drawed the wolves, of
course they would just as soon tackle a strong animal as a weak one but
the scent that scattered over the range from the dead stock and which
would reach no less sensitive a nose than theirs was a lot to their
liking, and they'd just drifted in to investigate.

It was below them to touch any of the carcasses they'd passed, for
these was old wolves well up to the game of killing, and nothing but
fresh meat would do. A good fat yearling or two year old colt is what
came highest and most to their tastes, and when they skirted that ridge
and spotted that little bunch of ponies in the draw below, it was the
sight of them that reminded their appetites how long ago it was since
they'd et last, and they'd traveled a long ways.

But it was still daylight, and according to their natural way of doing
things they'd wait till night come before making the kill. They
skirted on and out of sight of the horses, nosed the snow and the air
to make sure that the coast was clear and after another look at the
country so they'd know it when they returned the wolves trotted on.
They showed what old timers they was as they circled well away from a
carcass for fear of a trap, they'd had their toes pinched in the steel
jaws, scars showed where bullets had grazed 'em and one was still
packing a piece of lead which a cowboy had fired at him from a long
shot with a 30-30.

The big buckskin back there in the draw knowed their way, and it
showed in his action, he'd quit pawing for grass and instead put all
his attention to the tops of the ridges that was all around him and
the bunch. The way them three wolves had sized up the bunch and then
disappeared had made him restless and mighty spooky and finally that
draw got to be too much of a hole for him, too good a place for an
enemy to come into without being seen till that enemy was too close.

The older mares showed a lot of spookiness too which all got Smoky
riled up so that he begin acting the same, and when the buckskin took
the lead out of the draw to where a good look of the country around
could be got the whole bunch was mighty anxious to follow. Even the
little colts seemed to have the hunch that something was up, the white
of their eyes showed and they stuck mighty close to their mammies' side.

       *       *       *       *       *

A big moon came up and the light of it reflected a path that shined
on the crusted snow, the air was mighty still, still with the cold
that'd gripped the range and made everything that lived and carried
hoofs come to a stand so that no air would be stirred; a breeze at that
temperature would froze stiff every standing animal in that territory.

Smoky, the buckskin, and the bunch stood on a knoll where they could
see well around 'em, they looked like petrified or froze there so still
they all stood, there was no sign of life from 'em excepting for an ear
that moved once in a while and which was on the job to catch any sound
that might come from near or far.

The "yip, yip," and howl of a cayote was heard, another answered, and
pretty soon them two filled the air with their serenading--. The echo
of that hadn't quite died down when the long, drawed out, and mournful
howl of a wolf made that of the cayotes seem like a joke. The little
bunch of horses on the knoll hadn't blinked an eye while the cayotes
was serenading, but at the sound of what followed, every head in the
bunch went up, every ear pointed towards the sound, and the buckskin
with a few others snorted.

Restlessness had got in the bunch. Smoky started out a ways and came
back, then pretty soon and keeping as close together as they could they
all begin moving. They moved on like shadows, and like more shadows
three grey shapes had took up their trail.

The big buckskin had stayed in the rear of the bunch and he was first
to notice the wolves, a loud whistling snort was heard from him as he
landed in the middle of the bunch and kettled 'em into a stampede and
the run for their lives. The cold air was split forty ways and crusted
hunks of snow was sent a flying as the ponies all wild eyed broke their
way thru the drifts at the edge of a ridge and run on towards the big
flat.

Smoky had stampeded with the rest and kept pretty well up in the lead
thru the run, but now that his blood was warming up in plowing thru the
deep snow, and being that that blood was circulating more free up his
neck and into his brain, it all put somewhat of a different light on
the subject. That brain of his was all het up, on hair trigger with the
waking up the run was giving it, and pretty soon something hatched up
in there that made Smoky slow down till the bunch went past and ahead
of him.--He was wanting to see what was all fired dangerous about them
wolves so as to make the bunch run that way.

The big buckskin was the last to pass Smoky, he was busy keeping two
little colts just a few months old from lagging behind too far, bucking
the deep snow at the speed the bunch was making was beginning to show
on 'em and it was taking a lot of persuading from the big horse to keep
them little fellers on the move.

The wolves was steady catching up with the bunch and the attack would
of took place some sooner if it hadn't been for Smoky. His lagging
behind had fooled the wolves into thinking that the mouse colored
gelding had quit and was ready to make his last stand. It had been
Smoky's intention to wait for the killers and paw the daylight out of
'em, but as the three rushed in on him he figgered it a good idea to
postpone the pawing for a while and do a little running till he was
some acquainted with their ways and tricks.

Head and tail up and fire in his eyes he lined out and _led the wolves
away from the bunch_. They'd figgered on making him their victim on
account he was the handiest but as the chase kept up they found the
gelding had a powerful lot of speed left in him. In the meantime Smoky
had somehow lost all hankering of stopping and fight it out with 'em,
there was something about the three hungry looking crethures that kept
him a moving and his instinct was warning him strong that he should
keep some safe distance between him and them.

He was doing that the best he could and as the running kept up and the
wolves couldn't get any closer they finally figgered they was wasting
their time. May be he got to looking too old and tough for 'em and
calculated they'd rather have younger and more tender meat, besides he
was leading 'em straight away from the bunch which might make 'em lose
their chances of getting anything at all.

Smoky's play of leading the wolves off that way had been a great relief
to the bunch and mostly the young colts, they'd had a chance to slow
down some and get their second wind, and when the killers showed up on
their trail once again they was all more able to sashay on and keep
from reach of their tearing fangs.

When Smoky found that the wolves had left him and turned back towards
the bunch, it was his natural instinct to turn too and follow up in
their tracks, he had a hunch somehow that he'd be needed there and he
hadn't altogether lost the hope of a chance of taking apart at least
one of the outlaws.

It was a long and mighty hard run back till he caught up with the bunch
again, but Smoky wasn't the horse he was for nothing, he made it in
near as good a time as the wolves themselves, and he got there just as
the wolves circled around past the buckskin and headed for one of the
colts he'd been hazing.

The buckskin hadn't hardly been noticed, the wolves had passed him up
as too old specially when there was such as the young colts which could
be got easy. The old horse had watched 'em catch up with the bunch
and go past him for a younger victim, he had no way to know that they
didn't want him, and he could of kept well in the lead of the bunch if
he'd wanted to but he'd made hisself guardian over the little colts and
he couldn't for the life of him have left 'em behind. Of course the
little fellers' mammies would of fought for 'em too but they was at the
stage where they felt every horse was for himself, they'd scared into a
stampede and was all a running for their own lives.

The old buckskin knowed wolves, he knowed they had their eye on him and
it was best to keep neutral till they'd got over being watched of every
move he'd make, and as the three greys passed him and was gaining on
the scared little colts he kept to one side and watched. It was just as
the leader made a leap for one of the little fellers' ham strings that
the big buckskin came to life, made a leap too and went to fighting at
the risk of his own life.

The wolves hadn't looked for no such move from him, they'd got over
watching and figgered he was far behind and had put all their
attention on dragging down the victim they'd picked. It was a mighty
big surprise for them when from behind the big buckskin landed on the
second wolf and buried him in the snow while on his way to the first.
A good sized hoof came down just as that first wolf turned his head to
meet the fighting buckskin. That hoof connected with his lower jaw as
he made the turn and left that jaw hanging limp and plum useless.--When
the old pony looked back for the other wolves there was long grey hairs
sticking between his teeth.

It was about then when Smoky arrived on the scene, he'd come up right
behind the buckskin and when the second wolf picked himself up out of
the snow and made a grab which would of been the death of the old horse
Smoky done a side swipe that was quicker than chained lightning. A hind
hoof came up and caught that wolf right under a front leg close to the
body and took that leg off of him like it'd been a tooth pick;--another
horse that'd come up from behind and hadn't been reckoned with.

[Illustration: Smoky done a side swipe that was quicker than chained
lightning.]

It was during this commotion of biting and kicking mixture of buckskin
and mouse colored horseflesh and flying grey wolves that the third and
only able wolf disappeared into thin air. Them two fighting ponies had
took away all his appetite for colt meat and left a hankering only to
be gone from the reach of their destroying hoofs. Three of his kind
could of competed with the mad ponies if their attention had been on
them from the start, but that's where the slip had been made, and as
it was that lone wolf didn't feel at all equal of resuming what the
leader of the pack had started.--He left.

       *       *       *       *       *

The moon faded away into the sky, break of day had come. Out on the
flat the little bunch of ponies was knee deep in the snow and a pawing
away for the grass that was underneath, there wasn't a scratch on nary
a hide to show that any had ever seen a wolf, but if Smoky and his
pardner the buckskin hadn't been in that little bunch there would of
been another story to tell. The little colt which was so busy digging
up feed for himself and plum ignorant of the close call he'd had would
of been amongst the missing and just easing the appetites of three gray
wolves, and who knows but what a couple more colts might of been killed
along with him, for once a wolf gets a taste of warm blood there's no
telling how far he'll go.

The "yip, yip" and howl of a cayote sounded off from the hills, and
gradual as the sun came up big clouds showed over the skyline from the
northwest and seemed like headed to meet and kill that sun's warm rays.
By noon that day a blizzard had come and the little bunch of ponies
faced it on the way back to the shelter of the hills from where they'd
left in their run for life.

The howl of a lone wolf was heard that night, and away off to the south
there came an answer, an answer that was more drawed out and mournful
than any that'd ever been heard. Smoky snorted, but with the buckskin,
only his head went up, his ears pointed towards the sound. He knowed
wolves and he knowed they wouldn't be back, not that night.

The blizzard hung on for a day and filled the ravines with deep drifts,
then the wind died and it settled down to a slow falling snow. There
was more white mounds where that snow had covered the carcasses of dead
critters, but amongst them mounds there was one that wasn't made by any
of the bellering grass eating kind.--A big gray wolf layed there, a
broke jaw had been the cause of his death.

(Some months later a cowboy run down and roped a three legged wolf and
remarked as he looked close to where a front leg was missing, how "it
must of been an awful wicked bullet to've took that leg off so neat.")

The already long winter dragged and hung on like it never was going to
quit, snow was deep, and even tho the sun climbed higher and stayed
longer there seemed to be no more heat from it than there'd been two
months before and when it was at its lowest. The ponies was having a
hard time and as the feed kept a getting to be harder to reach right
along they was steady losing on weight and strength. The roundness
that'd been theirs a few months before was all gone and instead they
showed lean and slab sided.

       *       *       *       *       *

Finally, and after it seemed there'd be no end to the rough weather
there came a break, it turned warmer, and some time later the snow
begin to sag and then melt on the sunny side of the hills, gradually,
and after what seemed weeks instead of days the grass showed in plain
sight more and more till the time come when the ponies didn't have to
paw for their feed no more. Then after a while there was green stems
showing thru the dry grass.--The dangers of the winter was over.

The range had turned from white to brown and then green and the little
bunch of ponies begin to perk up considerable, the winter hair was a
slipping, their eyes showed more bright, and pretty soon ribs begin to
disappear under layers of fat and glossy hides. Then to make this new
green world as great and wonderful as the winter before had been hard
and cruel there begin to appear brand new little colts in the bunch,
all slick little fellers and full of play. And as the bunch drifted
to the open prairie they came acrost little calves, their little white
faces a shining in the sun.

Smoky had more than kept with all the changes to the good, he showed
it in every move he made, and as him and the old buckskin (which had
got young again) played around and showed jealous over the new colts it
made a sight that was complete in all that life could give.

There was months of peace that way, the little bunch roamed the
prairies not at all seeming to care where sunup found 'em. Tall green
feed was a plenty and everywheres, clear swift mountain streams slowed
down on the flats and furnished moisture for the big cottonwoods that
reached out in the sky and made cool shade, and as it was, time was
just let slip by and enjoyed only as a free range horse with little
colts for company can enjoy it.

It was more thru habit than heat that the little bunch drifted on up
the foothills one day and then higher in the mountain. May be they
liked the breeze up there better, or the change of feed, or maybe it
was that too many riders had been showing up off and on and which kinda
disturbed 'em.

But them riders couldn't be dodged that easy, and one day for a whole
half hour there was one to within a half a mile of 'em a setting on his
horse, field glasses in his hands and looking at the little bunch as
they fanned themselves on a high ridge plum ignorant of the eyes that
was on 'em.

That rider had spotted the mouse-colored blaze-faced gelding, and at
the sight of him let out a whistle of surprise of seeing such a horse.
He'd rode a little closer then and watched that horse some more, he'd
of come still closer only he didn't want to kettle the bunch and make
'em suspicious, besides he'd just wanted to locate where that horse was
running so he'd know where to find him when he wanted to.--He was one
of the Rocking R men.

Smoky had stood the whole watchful spell without a hunch of it, and as
him and the little bunch started a grazing on up the mountain there
was nothing further away from his mind than the thought of a human on
his trail. Of course there wasn't any human on his trail that day,
but there would be soon, for the way that rider talked that night and
described Smoky to the bronco buster of the outfit all indicated that
it wouldn't be long when the little horse would be finding himself in a
high pole corral.

Smoky was now a four year old going on five, the age when most all
range geldings are run in and broke to either saddle or harness, for
use on the range or to fit 'em for market. The little horse'd had a
good long time of freedom and if he was kept with the outfit he'd get
more, but his time for usefulness had come. The free roaming of the
hills and flats was past for a while till the work he'd be cut out for
was done, and Smoky's experiences from his colt days on till now would
go on with more learning and experiences with the human.

Smoky's waking up to realizing them things came sudden and all mighty
unexpected. A long legged rider on a long legged horse had showed up
on a ridge above him and the bunch; there'd been a lot of territory
covered in mighty fast time as all lit into a run and they was hazed
down onto the flats and then into long pole wings towards the corral,
then first thing Smoky knowed he was penned in, he couldn't go no
further. A big gate was closed and all around him was big cottonwood
bars.

In another pen joining the one Smoky was in there was other horses,
all geldings and along about Smoky's size and age. The gate between
was opened and Smoky was cut out of his bunch by that same long legged
rider that'd run him in, and put thru that gate to join them other
geldings, the gate was closed again after him.

Smoky peeked thru the bars and watched the rider open the outside gate
and leave out the bunch he'd run with. He watched one of the mares take
the lead and in a long lope, head back to the high territory from where
they'd come, he watched the little colts running to keep up and then he
seen the big buckskin tagging along. His pardner and all was leaving
him amongst strange horses, in a high corral, and not far away was a
human which to Smoky was ten times worse than any wolf.

He nickered, and there was a sound to it that made the buckskin stop,
look back, and nicker an answer. The old horse stood there a while
kinda like he was waiting but pretty soon he started again and caught
up with the bunch. The old buckskin knowed humans, he'd packed many a
one of 'em on many a long ride, his freedom had been handed back to him
for the good work he'd done, he'd experienced what Smoky was going thru
now and knowing what he did it was all plain to him just what was up.
There was no use of him waiting.

Smoky watched him and the bunch disappear in a cloud of dust and out of
sight. If only there was no bars holding him it wouldn't take him long
and he could still catch up with 'em, but--He was brought back to hard
facts by the squeak of the heavy gate as it was pulled open and the
cowboy walked in with a long coil of rope on his arm.

Smoky let out a snort at the sight of the human and tore up the earth
for the far side of the corral. Natural fear of the crethure had a hold
on him and once against the solid bars he turned and quivering faced
what he felt was his worst enemy.

If Smoky could only knowed, there'd been a lot of suffering which he
wouldn't had to've went thru on account of that fear, if he'd only
knowed that right then that human was just admiring him for all he
was worth and that doing the little horse any harm was the furthest
thing away from his mind. But the wild gelding had no way of knowing
and every word that human was saying sounded to him like the growl
of a flesh tearing animal, and every move was a step closer to the
victim;--he was the victim.

The cowboy well understood his kind. He'd been raised on the backs of
such as him and he was making his living by gentling that kind and
making good saddle horses out of 'em, and as he stood there, his eyes
taking in every move the mouse colored gelding was making, there was a
smile showed under the stetson. That smile was just for the glad way
he felt as he sized him up and seen where he was all saddle horse, not
the kind that'd fit in harness and to be shipped to farming countries.
He was glad to know that he'd be the first to touch that pony's hide,
and as he kept his eye on the gelding, at the same time shaking out a
loop, he felt there'd be no end of patience for such a horse as that
one looked to be.

His loop ready he walked towards the gelding. Smoky watched him come
and that pony's actions showed where he just wanted to shrink away to
nothing and disappear, but he stayed full size, and seen where his next
best move was to just move, and away to most any old place. The other
geldings scattered as the human came on and Smoky piled in amongst 'em
full speed to the other side of the corral; about that time he heard
the hiss of a rope and that thing which he likened to a snake coiled up
and right around both his front feet.

Them front feet was jerked away from under him as he sailed in the air
and tried to get away, and then he made a circle in the atmosphere and
came down to earth flat on his side. He no more than hit the ground
when he tried to get up. He tried it again and again, and as the cowboy
talked to him and advised him to ease up on the fighting Smoky turned a
wild eyed look his way and snorted.

"Now lay down and be good," says that cowboy. "I sure don't want to
skin up that pretty hide of yours."

Smoky did lay down, he had to, for in another few seconds his four feet
was tied together. He breathed hard as he layed there plum helpless,
his mind wasn't working no more, his heart was a thumping fit to bust
and the racing of the blood thru his body only stampeded his brain. He
was past trying to figger out how he was throwed so easy and then held
down where he could move only his head. No cougar or bear could of made
him so helpless, he could of fought with them, but with this human it
all seemed like he had no chance and the mystery of that human's power
is what put the fear in him, a fear the likes of which was a heap worse
than he'd felt if he'd been cornered by a thousand bears, cougars, and
wolves.

In a dazed way he seen the cowboy bend over him; a knee touched his
neck and the muscles along there quivered the same as if a snake's
fangs had been feeling for a holt. A hand touched his ear and another
his forehead; there was no pain but if there had been the little horse
would of never felt it.

Pretty soon a hackamore was slipped on his head, he felt the rawhide
"bosal" around his nose and then the "feador" rope around his neck, all
the while the crethure was making a low, and _somehow_ not aggravating
noise. It was a talking to him.

The cowboy gave his forehead a couple of rubs, then stood up and walked
around to the pony's feet, Smoky felt the tight ropes loosening up from
around his ankles and pulled away; his feet was free but his mind was
confused a lot and he still layed there; then he felt a pull on the
hackamore rope.

"Come on up and stand on your legs," says that cowboy,--and Smoky came
to life.

He came to life a pawing and rearing and a snorting. His feet was free
and he could handle 'em again, he did handle 'em and put in all the
strength and action he had a trying to pull away from the cowboy which
was holding him with a long rope.--There's some talk of the skill
that's showed between the angler and the trout, but the skill that was
brought out from that hundred and fifty pound cowboy a holding that
eleven hundred pounds of kinky, wild horseflesh was past talking about
and beyond the figgering out of any human that's not up to the trade of
bronco busting.

The cowboy played his rope and held his horse, he'd held many like him
before and most all had fought the same as Smoky was now fighting. That
pony's eyes was afire as he seen there was no chance for any get away
even when he was on his feet, he couldn't at all shake that two legged
hunk of terror, and as he snorted and fought the rope that still held
fast around his head and neck he begin to tire some, and came a time
when as the cowboy stood still a few yards away he stood still too, and
legs wide apart, sweat a dripping from his slick hide, he took in a
breathing spell.

He stood there as he watched the cowboy back away and let the rope
slide thru his hands; he watched him open the gate and get the saddle
horse that'd been left to stand on the other side, seen him get on that
horse and then pick up the slack of the rope that was holding him.
There was thirty feet of it between him and the mounted human, and when
that rope was tossed a little as the rider circled around him, Smoky
made a leap and shaking his head like trying to slip what held him he
headed straight on for the open gate.

But once past it Smoky was jerked to a fighting standstill, he hadn't
as yet reckoned that a rope _could_ hold him--. The gate was closed
after him and the rider had went thru and then Smoky felt some slack.
He took advantage of that and started out full speed again; he was out
of the corral and in the open, the rope that was still on him was only
felt and wasn't holding him from lining out.

A shallow creek bottom full of tall green feed was by that corral and
Smoky headed down it; any place would do so long as he could run and
keep a distance between him and that rider, but that run wasn't to last
long, once again he felt the rope tighten till he was brought to a
stop, and facing the rider once more watched him get off his horse and
fasten the end of the long rope to a log.

"Well, little horse," says the cowboy as he stood there and watched
him for a spell, "don't play too rough with this rope, the better you
treat it the better it'll treat you," and with that he got on his horse
and rode off towards the corrals where more broncs waited for the same
eddication that Smoky had just got.

That long soft and thick cotton rope, and that log which held Smoky
was the means of his first learnings as to ways for usefulness to the
human. The more he'd fight that rope and try to get away from it the
more he'd learn that his fighting and tearing was of _no use_. That
rope was on the job steady and to learn him to turn as he run and hit
the end of it, it would take the stiffness out of his neck and there'd
come a time when he'd give to a pull from either side without fighting
and wanting to be convinced that it could be done. The log which the
rope was tied to was part of the teaching apparatus, heavy enough to
hold the pony, and even tho it could be dragged around some Smoky
couldn't get very far with it.

The little horse realized somehow as he sized up the contraption that
the end had come to all he'd enjoyed with the freedom he'd had, cool
shades,--clear streams, and grassy ranges to all roam on as he pleased
had been took away from him; he didn't know what was to come next, but
he did know that he was on that creek bottom, close to corrals, and
there to stay for a spell.




                               CHAPTER V

                      THE BRONC TWISTER STEPS UP


A cloud of dust was hanging on over the big corrals where Clint, the
bronc twister of the Rocking R outfit, was busy starting raw broncs
under the saddle and "twisted" 'em in shape for good saddle stock. It
was long, hot, and hard days for that cowboy as he wrestled with the
slick, fat, and snorty ponies and convinced 'em that they all could be
led, rode, and handled according to the way he seen fit; but Clint was
used to that, he'd been at it for years with nary a rest or relief from
the work that was beginning to tell on him.

He'd take ten broncs at a time and soon as he'd took the rough off them
ten he'd turn 'em over as broke and run in ten more raw, wild ponies.
Each green colt was rode every day if even only for half an hour, and
gradually learned to behave under the saddle. There was a few that
wouldn't learn to behave, but the Rocking R outfit had good men and all
them ponies was put in to their work whether they was good or bad.

Clint had been with the layout for near two years, and in that time
had broke to ride somewheres around eighty head of horses. He'd broke
many more for other outfits and never made an outlaw, if one did turn
outlaw once in a while it was because of that pony's natural instinct
to be that way, but Clint handled and rode 'em all just the same,--if a
perticular horse couldn't be learned it sure wasn't his fault and none
had better try to learn that same horse _anything_.

As has been said before, bronc fighting was beginning to tell on
Clint,--none of them ponies he'd broke had spared him, and instead
they'd called on for all that was in him. Many had tried to tear him
apart and scatter him in the dust of the big corrals; hoofs had come
like greased lightning and took hunks off his bat-wing chaps, teeth
had took a few shirts off his back, and as he'd climbed on one after
another of these wild, kinky ponies they most all tried to see if they
could move the heart of him from one side of his body to the other.

There was many times when he was layed up with dislocated shoulders,
ribs broke and legs the same. From the root of his hair to the toes in
his made to order boots there was signs, if not seen they was felt,
where some horse had twisted, broke, or shook something loose. Each
happening had come more or less separate, and healed some in time, but
as some kept a repeating off and on there was some parts of him which
never got strong again, and as time went on and as Clint said, "he was
beginning to feel loose like an old clock and figgered that some day
some bucking hunk of horseflesh would take the _tick_ out of him and
scatter him out so that none of the parts would never be found again."

Clint had started riding rough ones long before he quit growing and
that's the condition he was in at thirty, an old man, far as riding was
concerned. The horses of the same big outfit he'd rode for was worked
on the average of only four months in the year, and in them four months
the broke horses was rode only four or five hours once every three
days. That might show some of the difference in the work the cowboy and
the cowhorse does with a real cow outfit.--The men go to pieces young
and early and the ponies stay fat,--but there was no grudge for there's
nobody in the world likes to see and ride a fat strong horse more than
does the cowboy.

They'll keep the ponies fat and feeling good, and some of them horses
find it hard to behave and will try to jar loose the eye teeth of
their riders. The cowboy wants 'em that way tho',--it's a pride of
his to have a kinky horse under him that's feeling good rather than
some gentle old plug that's leg weary. That all gets him in time, but
there's a grin on his face when that time comes, a grin from the pride
of knowing that he never was seen on no horse that was against the
principle of a cowboy to ride.

Like with Clint, horses was the life of him. He loved 'em for all he
was worth and the greatest pleasure in the world for him was in just
being with a corral full of 'em, handling 'em and feeling of their
hides. The satisfaction he'd get out of seeing some four year old
colt learn the things he'd teach meant a heap more to him than the
wages he drawed for that work, and there was times as he'd be breaking
some right brainy gelding and watch the horse pick up fast on the
eddication he'd give him, when he'd feel real attached to the pony.
He'd hate to give him up when the time came for all half broke horses
to be turned over to the round up wagons and where more teaching in the
handling of the critter begin.

"I feel sort of married to them kind of ponies," he'd say, "and I sure
don't hanker to part with 'em just when we're beginning to get along
good together, but," he'd go on "I guess as long as I'll be breaking
horses this way I can't get too sensitive."

But Clint kept a being sensitive that way, and he never was happy when
he'd see riders coming in on him and then ride away hazing a bunch of
the broncs he'd "started." "Some day," he was heard to say once "I'm
going to meet a horse I'll really get married to, and then there'll be
things a popping."

Clint would have such a liking for some of them ponies that he'd forget
and didn't want to think that they belonged to the company and not to
him. He was just hired to break 'em. He'd reason that out often but
that reasoning never fazed the hankering he felt and that's how come
when he run in the mouse colored gelding he begin to do some tall
figgering.

He had a hunch when he first set eyes on that pony that he'd met the
horse which would start "things a popping" when any rider showed up to
claim all that's half broke. Clint had dreamed of such a horse as the
mouse colored gelding but he'd never expected to see one really living,
that pony had got holt of his heart strings from the start, and as he
watched thru the bars of the corral out to where the horse was picketed
he felt him to be the kind he'd steal if he couldn't buy, and if he
could neither steal nor buy he'd work for.

It'd been two days since he'd run him in and put him on the picket
rope outside the corral a ways, and in them two days Clint had been
mighty fearful lest somebody rode up on him, seen the horse and took
possession of him as private saddle stock for the superintendent or
some other what owned shares in the outfit and liked pretty horses that
way. Clint wanted that horse mighty bad and he was just leary something
would happen so he'd be took away from him, but as he'd reason some he
was less worried and he'd wind up by saying as he'd take another peek
towards the gelding. "They'd have to let me break him first, and before
anybody else gets him I'll sure make an outlaw out of that horse."

That was no way for Clint to feel maybe, but that's sure enough the way
he figgered on doing rather than lose the horse to anybody else;--that
feeling was past skin deep with him and that I think excuses him some.

In the two days that Clint'd had the horse up, there was no chance
passed where he could show his feelings and win that pony's
confidence,--if the picket rope tangled him up too much Clint was right
there to untangle him and each time the gelding fought less when he
came. That pony was gradually losing his fear of being et up or tore
apart by the human and pretty soon he felt as Clint came and went that
each visit from that crethure brought some comfort in a way.

It was on the second evening and when the day's work was all done
that Clint made his way from the bunk house to where the gelding was
picketed. He went up to within a rope's length of the horse, rolled a
smoke, and stood there watching him.

"Smoky," he says, "you're some horse"--Clint hadn't hardly realized
he'd spoke a name, he was too busy watching and admiring that pony's
every move, so as it was that name came unconscious like to the cowboy
and it was used and repeated from then on as natural as tho that name
had been thought and decided on.

He'd named many horses and had always let the name come to him either
by the color, size, or shape of each horse, and sometimes by the way
they acted. He'd called one tall rangy horse "Shorty" and another low
built small horse "Skyhigh." Often the name didn't at all fit the horse
in that way but there was some reason there, the same as there was a
mighty good reason to call the mouse colored gelding "Smoky."

He did look like a rounded shiny cloud of grey smoke, and as he held
his ground and watched the cowboy, he acted as tho he might live up to
his name and really go up in smoke,--his acquaintance with the human
hadn't been very long and he wasn't as yet any too confident.

Clint could tell as he watched just what was going on in that pony's
think tank, he could still see fear in his eyes, but mixed in with
that fear was a lot of nerve that showed fight. He knowed that pony
would fight and make himself hard to handle, and he'd of been mighty
disappointed not to've seen them signs in the horse. It was only
natural that any of his kind should act this way and he figgered the
wilder the spirit the bigger and more worth while would the winning
be.--He would take his time, do a good job and turn Smoky from a wild
raw bronc into a well broke and eddicated cowhorse.

He took a few steps closer and Smoky backed away to the end of the
rope,--he snorted when he found he couldn't back no further and pawed
at the rope as the cowboy kept a coming still closer and closer. Clint
took his time but came on steady and a talking the while till he
finally got within a couple of feet of the horse and where he could
touch him. Hanging on to the rope with the right hand he reached out
with the left and touched him easy between the eyes. Smoky flinched and
snorted but he stood it,--he stood it for quite a spell and felt the
hand rubbing on his forehead and working up and up towards his ears.

Clint had just about got to one of them ears when Smoky rubbed his nose
along the cowboy's sleeve, took a sniff, and then of a sudden nipped
him on the arm. That had happened to him before many a time and he'd
been ready for it with the result that the pony got only a piece of
shirt and no flesh.

"Now, don't be so daggoned ornery," says that cowboy as he kept a
rubbing the same as tho nothing had happened, "I only want to reach
between them ears and touch that knowledge bump of yours."

Finally he did reach the bump and rubbed around there a spell. Smoky
struck once, Clint dodged the front hoof and kept a rubbing. He rubbed
past the left ear and down his neck till the withers was reached, the
mane was worked on and all the knots in it untangled. The little horse
quivered and flinched every once in a while but the rubbing process
went on till Smoky begin showing symptoms that he could stand it all
easy enough.

In the meantime Clint talked to him like he'd never took time to talk
to another horse before, and if Smoky could of understood he'd knowed
by that talk just what was ahead for him; but Smoky wasn't thinking on
what was ahead,--the present had him worried enough as it was, and he
was kept busy watching every move that human was making.

Smoky had lost considerable wildness during the two days on the picket
rope. He'd learned there was no use in fighting the rope that held him,
that it was best to turn when he came to the end of it, and gradually
he was getting used to have that rope touch him here and there and he'd
quit kicking at it. He was more familiar with that than with the human
who put him there, but the rope done the trick of getting him used to
having anything touch him,--it kinda broke him to stand the touch of
the hand.

He was learning to stand that well enough too, but the movements of
that hand had to be just right, not too quick and no jabbing done or
there'd be a scattering of something mighty quick.

"I'm sure making a lot of fuss over you," says Clint as he rubs on past
the withers and along his back a ways. "If you was just an ordinary
bronc you'd be missing most of this attention and you'd be finding
yourself in the corral with me on top of you by tomorrow, and turned
in the 'Remuda' by another month, but I got a scheme up on account of
me liking you the way I do: I'm going to take my time and make you my
private top horse and when that's done I'll have every cowboy in the
country jealous of me for having such a horse as you're going to turn
out to be."

With Clint's scheming that way there was a good chance of him winning
out, and gradually, steady, the eddication of Smoky started in. That
cowboy called on for all he knowed in the profession of horse breaking
and used it all with a lot of time to shape out Smoky the way he wanted
him. No company time was used on the horse on account Clint felt it
wouldn't been doing the square thing "cause," as he says "it'll be bad
enough if I have to steal him."--Of course Clint wouldn't steal that
horse or no other one, but he felt like he'd sure do something out of
the ordinary rather than let Smoky go to any other rider.

Every evening after that last meal of the day was over, Clint would be
down in the creek bottom with Smoky. What went on there showed some of
what Clint really thought of the mouse colored gelding, and there was
no disappointed look on his face when dark made him return to the bunk
house.

Smoky had been on the picket rope about a week. In that time Clint had
kept his eye on him thru the day while working in the corral and spent
a couple of hours with him every evening. The little horse had got used
to the rope and wouldn't pay no attention to it no more, but as for the
cowboy he was just neutral, it was hard for him to shed off the fear of
the human and which he'd inherited,--that human was still a mighty big
mystery to him even after a week's acquaintance. It'd done him no harm
but his wild instinct kept a warning him to expect most anything. The
power that two legged crethure had over him kept him leary and watching
for the next move, whatever that would be--and that's why Smoky was
still neutral, his confidence for the human hadn't come to the top as
yet and not a move did that cowboy make which he didn't see.

"You sure got your eye on me, aint you, little horse?" Clint would say,
"but that's the way I want you to be," he'd go on, "for the more you
watch the more you'll see and the quicker you'll learn."

Smoky did watch and see and learn, and then one evening Clint untied
the long picket rope from the log and started leading him towards the
corral; the little horse was broke to lead by then and he followed easy
enough. His heart was a thumping in wonder of what was due to happen as
the cowboy led him thru the big pole gate, he stepped high and careful
and his eyes took in everything that looked suspicious,--a slicker
hanging over one side of the corral made him snort and try to pull
away. Clint talked to him, and kept on a leading him thru another gate
into another smaller and round corral. A big snubbing post stuck up in
the center of it and by that post was a big brown and shiny hunk of
leather. It was Clint's saddle.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well now, little horse, the performance is about to begin, you're
going to get your first smell of saddle leather." Clint had turned
as he spoke and begin rubbing on Smoky's forehead. For once since
Smoky had been caught his attention wasn't on the cowboy, that hunk of
leather was drawing all his interest and ears pointed straight at it,
eyes a shining, he snorted his suspicions and dislike for the looks of
the contraption that was laying there, waiting it seemed like to jump
at him and eat him alive.

"Look, snort, and paw at it all you want," says the cowboy. "You'll
get well acquainted with it before you get thru, and I wont rush the
acquaintance either."

Clint didn't. He kept Smoky to within a few feet of the saddle and
grinning some at the pony's actions kept a rubbing him back of the ears
while the investigation was going on. Smoky was for getting away from
there but Clint was persuading him to stick around close, and there was
nothing for him to do but just that.

A move from the direction of that saddle right then would of queered
things and made Smoky scatter, and Clint couldn't of held him either
for a ways, but the hunk of leather layed still, mighty still, and
pretty soon it kinda lost its dangerous look to the little horse,--he
begin looking around for other things in that corral which wouldn't be
to his liking and not seeing anything that was worth getting spooky at
Smoky begin watching the cowboy again.

It was about then that Clint reached over and picked up the saddle slow
and easy and drug it closer to Smoky. At the first move of the riggin'
the little horse snorted and backed away but Clint and the saddle kept
a coming straight towards him, slow but steady. One side of the high
corral finally was reached. Smoky had backed against it and couldn't go
no further. The cowboy, still hanging onto the rope that held his head,
came on, saddle and all with him, and quivering with fear the little
horse layed low. Feet straight out in front and head near to the ground
he stayed there, and got another and different eddication with the
saddle, this time it was dragging.

[Illustration: The cowboy still hanging onto the rope that held his
head, came on, saddle and all with him, and quivering with fear the
little horse layed low, feet straight out in front and head near to the
ground he stayed there.]

When Clint thought that had gone far enough and seen where Smoky had
got over the worst of his fear he layed the saddle down again, and
picking up an old saddle blanket he begin fanning the air with it,
closer and closer to Smoky came the blanket as the fanning motion
kept on, and stary eyed the little horse watched. He struck at it and
snorted a couple of times and he even tried to turn and kick, but the
blanket came on till finally one corner of it grazed his side. He
flinched and kicked and tried to jerk away but there was no dodging
that spooky looking thing.

Not a word was heard from the cowboy as the "sacking" went on, this
was a part of the eddication that was necessary and which should be
put thru mighty quiet. It was all a spooky enough performance to a raw
bronc without adding on any talking, and even tho the goings on scared
the pony near out of his hide, that blanket done the trick of showing
him that no matter how bad it looked it wasn't going to hurt him. It
was one mighty good thing to teach him general confidence in the cowboy
and his riggin'.

Smoky fought like a cornered wolf and tried to get away, but he had
no chance,--Clint had "sacked" many a bronc that'd fought as much and
the cigarette between his lips noticed no change of spells between
puffs. Smoky showed hate and fear of the human once again the same as
when he was first caught, his instinct had warned him to expect most
anything from that crethure, and he wasn't surprised at the way things
had turned;--but that didn't help any, he just wanted to sail clear
over the corral and disappear.

Thru all that fighting and goings on the sacking kept up in steady
motion. Wherever the long blanket touched Smoky he flinched, and kicked
at it and squealed. He was too scared to realize that there was no
sting or any kind of a hurt felt. It was just the looks of the thing
which had him going and his fighting instinct just had to answer every
swish of that thing that circled around a leg one time and his neck the
next.

Finally, and whether it was from being tired of fighting or that he
was dazed past caring of what was going on Smoky begin to let up; his
kicks begin to get less wicked and his eyes lost some of the fiery look
till came a time when he stood near still and he'd only flinch as the
blanket kept a touching, going away, and touching him here and there
and all over.

Clint noticing the little horse calming down remarked, "You'll get so
you'll like it pretty soon." But Smoky wasn't showing no such symptom
as yet, he was just standing it best as he could and that was all.

Both sides and all around Smoky went Clint with his blanket till the
little horse finally even quit flinching. The cowboy then dropped the
rope that was holding the horse and worked his blanket wilder than
ever, that blanket was layed everywhere on that pony's hide and around
his legs, he layed it on the ground and drug it under him and all Smoky
would do was to cock one ear and watch it, but he never moved. A half
an hour before such a play would of sent him straight up.

Clint worked on for a while longer till he was sure there wasn't a
spot on that pony that'd flinch at the feel of the blanket, then he
begin to notice that Smoky was finally getting so he kinda liked the
performance, no flies could touch him while that was going on, and that
blanket being pulled all over him that way seemed to kind of soothe
some.

It was about when Clint figgered he could do no more good in the way of
sacking that he picked up his saddle again and came straight towards
Smoky with it. The squeak of the riggin' brought some interest from the
horse, but Clint was careful to bring the old blanket with him and keep
a fanning the same as to let him know that one was no worse than the
other.

In the first saddling of most broncs Clint generally tied up one of
their hind legs so as to hinder 'em from kicking the saddle out of his
hands and at the same time learn 'em to stand still while that went
on;--a few of 'em he'd just hobble in front. And being that Smoky'd
had more teaching than the average colt generally gets before first
saddling, Clint figgered that just hobbling his front feet would do.

The sacking had helped a lot and Clint had no trouble fastening the
rawhide hobbles around Smoky's ankles, the pony snorted at him a
little but stood still, for Clint was waving that blanket around as
he worked. Once the hobbles was on he picked up his saddle and _eased_
it up and on that pony's back. Smoky had a hunch that something new
was going on, something different than the sacking performance which
he'd just went thru; but as nothing happened outside of the flapping of
stirrup leathers and cinches he stood in one spot, only a quiver in the
muscles along his shoulder showed how much alive he was, and how quick
he could leave the earth if anything "goosed" him.

Plenty of practice had made Clint past master at putting a saddle on
a green colt, nothing happened to make Smoky want to move out of his
tracks, and even when the cinch was reached for and drawed up under his
belly he never batted an eye. The sacking had all been a mighty fine
preliminary for all this that followed and cured the horse from scaring
at everything that flapped on or around him.

As it was Smoky hardly realized that he was saddled till Clint took the
hobbles off his front feet and pulled him to one side. At that pull he
felt something fastened to him and hanging on, that was a new kind of
feeling to Smoky and it kettled him, down went his head and he lit in
to bucking.

Clint had expected that, for no bronc likes the feel of the cinch no
matter how loose it might be, and when Smoky bogged his head that way
he was ready,--he let the hackamore rope slide thru his hands for a
ways and till he could get a good footing, then he give that rope a
little flip and set down on it. That done the trick and it come daggone
near upsetting the little horse, but Clint let out just enough slack
and that saved him. He didn't want to throw the horse but then he
didn't want to have that horse buck with an empty saddle either.

"Now Smoky," says that cowboy as the horse jerked to his senses, turned
and faced him, "I don't want you to waste any of your energy that way,
if you want to do any bucking you just wait till I get in the middle of
you."

Smoky waited, but it wasn't thru the talk the cowboy had handed him
that he did wait; it was that he remembered how that rope had upset him
that first day he was picketed to the log outside the corral, and he
wasn't hankering to be "busted" that way again.

       *       *       *       *       *

There's folks that's read some on how horses are broke on the range,
and from that reading they get the idea that the cowboy breaks the
horses' spirit, that it's the only way a wild horse can be tamed. What
I've got to say on the subject if that's what's believed, is that
either them folks read something that's mighty wrong, or else they got
the wrong impression and misunderstood what they read, and breaking a
horse the way he's broke on the range is about the same on the animal
as schooling is to the human youngster. The spirit of the wild horse is
the same after years of riding as it was before he ever felt a rope,
and there's no human in the world wants to preserve that spirit in
the horse like the cowboy does;--he's the one what knows better than
anybody else that a horse with a broken spirit is no horse at all.

To them that _only_ sees a wild horse roped and rode and don't know the
insides of the game, horse breaking might seem a little rough; but I'm
here to say that it's not near as rough as it is necessary, and in the
long run it's the rider that gets treated the roughest. You let a wild
horse get away with something once and he'll try it again till there
will come a time when even if there's no meaness in him he'll develop
some. That's what makes outlaws.

Outlaws are made mostly when a horse proves too much for the man that
handles him. A wild horse will turn outlaw often if handled by any
other than them that knows his kind, and there'll be no way of breaking
him only thru starvation and abuse. His spirit would be broken then
too, and that proves that the cowboy, knowing his business, will see
that the pony's heart is kept intact.

There's a variety in horse minds as big as there is amongst human
minds. Some need more persuading than others, and a few of 'em, no
matter how firm they're handled will have to be showed again and again
that they can't get away with this or with that,--they'll keep on a
trying and if ever once they do put a bluff thru there's most generally
enough meaness in their system to make 'em plum worthless.

And like I was saying with Smoky, "he remembered how that rope had
upset him that first day he was picketed to that log outside the
corral, and he wasn't hankering to be 'busted' that way again."--That
little horse had brains. If he was convinced a few times he had the
sense to realize it, but at the same time, _he had_ to be showed, and
more because it was part of his necessary eddication than because of
any meaness of his.

He was willing to learn but the teaching had to come from one who
_could_ teach him. There was no meaness in Smoky, not an ounce of it,
he was honest clear thru, but meaness would develop if a slip was made.
He fought and bit and kicked but Smoky was a wild horse and he was
going only according to his instinct and more to protect himself from
the strange human.

That's the caliber of most range horses. Clint had handled many of 'em
and always won out with their confidence and turned 'em over as broke
with their spirit intact. He'd savvied Smoky the minute he dabbed his
rope on him that first time: that pony was wild, wild as a horse or any
animal can get, and he had the strength to go with it; but Clint seen
where that little horse also had a mighty fine set of brains between
them little pointed ears of his.

He treated him like a grown up would treat a kid, a kid of the kind
that'd learn a lot if the chance showed up, and he missed no chance to
show that pony all he should know and how good he wanted to be to him.

"Daggone it Smoky," he'd say, "it's too bad you can't know without I
have to use a lot of ropes, as it is sometimes. I bet you don't think
I'm a friend of yours, none at all."

Clint was right. At first Smoky had took him as an enemy and fought
him according; then had come a time when he was willing to trust him
some, specially when Clint had come and untangled him out of that long
picket rope, talked to him, and rubbed his ears. His heart had got over
thumping so much when he'd see the cowboy coming of evenings, and even
tho the little horse didn't realize it as yet, he'd got to expecting
him.

Then, and just about when his liking for the cowboy was coming to the
top fast, something happened that'd make him wonder for a spell if that
cowboy was a friend or still an enemy. The "sacking" he'd went thru in
the corral had sort of jarred the confidence that'd begin to sprout for
the bow-legged crethure, and then the way his head was jerked up out of
his bucking spell with the empty saddle, all had left him puzzled as
whether to start in and do some fighting or else be good and take his
medicine.

Smoky had no way of knowing as yet what was expected of him, and it was
a ticklish time for him. It was right then that he'd have to be handled
just right and when the turning point for the good or the bad would be
decided on. But Clint knowed how the turn to the good layed and it was
right there that he proceeded to bring it out.

There was only one way to it and that was for Clint to _show_ Smoky he
had to be good. The cowboy knowed Smoky had brains a plenty to realize
once he was showed, that he had to do just what he wanted him to do,
that of course would take a little time, the pony would fight some more
and _want_ to be showed, and to keep him from getting flustrated that
horse would have to have his own way, some.




                              CHAPTER VI

                        "THE SQUEAK OF LEATHER"


Twenty feet of rope is laying between the cowboy's hand and the pony's
head. The cowboy is standing there just watching and smiling some at
the surprised look that's in the pony's face, that pony had just been
stopped sudden in his bucking with an empty saddle;--it was the first
time a saddle had been on his slick back and it was no wonder he tried
to get out from under that thing, nothing had ever clung there before.

[Illustration: He didn't forget how he was stopped, and so sudden, that
first time he'd tried to break with an empty saddle.]

"Now, you just take it easy for a spell, and keep your head up," says
that cowboy as he started walking towards the pony.--Legs wide apart,
a wild look in his eyes, and a snorting his surprise Smoky watched him
come; he didn't know whether to stand his ground and start fighting
or back away as the cowboy came.--On he came, and as Smoky was seeing
no sign of harm, he stood in his tracks, watched, and waited. A hand
touched him on the forehead and moved on down his neck, the cowboy
was a talking to him the while, and pretty soon Smoky's heart wasn't
thumping so hard no more.----

[Illustration: A hand touched him on the forehead.]

He was then led a little ways, and as he heard the squeak of leather
and felt the weight of the saddle with each step he took, an awful
hankering came to him to put his head down and try to buck it off, but
the cowboy was right there in front of him and he didn't want to be
stopped again and so sudden as he'd been stopped that first time.

The other side of the corral was reached and there Clint turned and
rubbed Smoky on the ear. "Well, old boy, lets see how you're going to
behave when I get up in the middle of you."

Smoky watched the man reach for the latigo and felt the cinch tighten
up; a hump came in his back and which made the saddle set near on
end,--it was the hump that carried the punch in the buck, and most
likely Clint could of led the pony around some till the hump wore down
and his back straightened up again, but that rider wasn't for taking
the buck out of a bronc too quick. He believed a good sensible horse
should buck at the first few "settings" and he wasn't the kind of rider
that'd smother that natural feeling and have it come out later, when
the horse is supposed to be broke gentle.

He let the hump be and never moved the pony out of his tracks;--he
knowed that just one move would be enough to start that pony to
exploding, and Smoky was set and just a waiting for that signal to
start. He watched the cowboy raise his chaps so the belt wouldn't
hinder his leg action, watched him pull his hat brim down solid, and
then he couldn't watch no more. Something had come between him and his
vision, it was the cowboy's thumb which had layed over his left eyelid
and pulled it down over his eye--In the next second he felt a weight
added on to that of the saddle, and all of a sudden he could see again.

But what he did see left him stary eyed and paralized. For half a
minute he just stood like petrified, that cowboy had disappeared from
the side of him, and instead, there he was right in the middle of his
back and on that hunk of leather he'd been hankering to shed off ever
since it was put on there.

Instinct pointed out only one way for him to act,--it was telling him
that neither the human nor the leather belonged up there in the middle
of him that way, and that if he tried he could most likely get rid of
'em. There was nothing else to do that he could see, and right then he
felt that he sure must do _something_.

His head went down, and a beller came out of him that said much as "I
want you"--Up went Smoky's withers followed by the hump that made the
saddle twist like on a pivot, and last came steel muscles like shot
out of the earth and which carried the whole mixed up and crooked
conglameration of man and horse up in mid air and seemed like to shake
there for a spell before coming down. All seemed heads and tails and
made a picture of the kind that was mighty hard to see, and still
harder to figger out.

Saddle strings was a popping like on a whip lash, leather was a
squeaking, corrals shook as the hard hitting hoofs of the pony hit the
earth, and a dust was stirred that looked like a young cloud. Smoky was
scared, mad, and desperate. All the action, strength, and endurance
that was in him was brought out to do its best. Not a hair on his hide
was laying idle thru the performance,--every muscle tightened and
loosened in a way to shake the weight on his back and make it pop.

Clint felt the muscles work even thru the saddle, and every part of
that pony which his legs touched seemed as hard as steel and full of
fast working bumps which came and went, twisted his saddle under him,
and made him wonder if it was going to stay. It seemed like sometimes
that Smoky was headed one way and his saddle another,--he wasn't always
sure of the whereabouts of that pony's head; and in all his riding
that's what he wanted to keep track of most, cause losing track of a
horse's head at them times is something like riding blindfolded--a
rider would prepare for one kind of a jolt and meet another, which
would cause things to scatter considerable.

Clint was still straight up and on top when Smoky's hard jumps finally
dwindled down to crowhops and then a stop. That pony was needing
wind mighty bad, and as his nostrils opened wide, was taking in the
necessary air, he felt a hand a rubbing along his neck, and wild eyed,
ears cocked back at the cowboy that was still there, he stood and heard
him talk.

"You done a mighty fine job little horse," says Clint, "and I'd of been
disappointed a lot not to've found that kind of spirit in a horse like
you."

       *       *       *       *       *

If Smoky had been raised amongst humans like a dog and been with 'em
steady that way, he'd of had a hunch or felt what Clint said and meant.
But Smoky was a wild horse of the flats and mountains, and even tho the
sound of Clint's tone and the feel of his hand soothed him some, he
would buck again and again. It was his instinct to fight the human, and
he would fight till that human showed he could handle him and proved a
friend.

That had to be done gradual, and Smoky had no way to know as yet that
man could be a friend of his, not while the breaking was going on
anyway, for thru that spell a horse is _made_ to do things he sometimes
don't want to do and which all keeps down the confidence that would
come faster if that didn't have to be done.

Smoky was doing some tall figgering as he stood there trembling and
wondering if there wasn't anything that he could get by with. He'd been
made to do things just as that cowboy pleased and he'd found no say
in the goings on, none at all. If he could only've bucked him off that
would of pleased him a lot, but the little horse didn't know that he
wouldn't of won anything by that;--he didn't know he was on this earth
for the purpose of the human and that if he did throw one man another
would climb him till finally he'd have to give in and go thru a lot of
grief the while.

Smoky felt a light slap on his neck. "Come on, young feller," says the
cowboy. "Lets see you trot around the corral a while."

But Smoky bucked more than he trotted, the cowboy let him, and when his
head would come up he'd keep him on the go till finally there seemed to
be no buck in the horse at all.

"I reckon that'll be enough for you to-day," says Clint, as he headed
Smoky for the side of the corral and made him face the bars to a stop.
He then reached for the pony's left ear and twisted it some, just
enough to keep that pony's attention on the twist of that ear most
while he got off.

Clint touched the ground with his right foot, and keeping his left in
the stirrup, at the same time keeping close to the horse's shoulder
and out of the reach of his hind feet, he held that position for a few
seconds. Smoky was watching him, shaking like a leaf and ready to paw
the daylight out of the cowboy at the first wrong move or sudden jab of
a knee.

Clint _wanted_ him to watch. This was part of the eddication, and all
that cowboy wanted to teach right then was for Smoky to stand and not
to go to acting up. Slow and easy, at the same time having complete
control of himself and his horse, Clint raised himself up in the saddle
again. It was done in a way that only bronc busters know. Smoky never
even felt the pull on the saddle as the cowboy climbed on, and if that
saddle hadn't even been cinched it wouldn't of budged then, so neat it
was done.

Clint climbed on and off a few times that way, Smoky stood and
shivered, scared, but willing it seemed like to take his medicine.
Maybe it'd come to his mind that there was no use fighting that cowboy,
or else he was getting tired--anyway that was the last of it, Smoky
felt the cinch loosen and then slow and easy the saddle was pulled off.
About that time he whirled and faced the rider who was holding the
saddle, he took a sniff at the hunk of leather and snorted like to say,
"Gee! I thought that thing was on me for good."

The saddle was set to one side and the cowboy begin rubbing Smoky's
back with a gunny sack, and according to the way that pony acted that
felt mighty good, his upper lip stuck out and twitched with every
motion of the rubbing, and when Clint finally quit the little horse's
action showed plain that he should do it some more, Clint rubbed again.

"I'm afraid," he says as he grinned and rubbed, "that I'm naturally
going to spoil you. Here we just got thru with the first saddling and
you're beginning to look for favors already."

       *       *       *       *       *

Smoky's picket grounds was moved to a fresh one for that night and
where the grass was tall, a plenty and green,--but somehow his
appetite wasn't at its best, and when the break of day come there
was very little sign (as Clint noticed) that the pony had et at all.
He'd just stood in one spot, looked like, and seemed to've done tall
wondering and figgering instead of feeding. He was ganted up the same
as if he'd been rode all that night, and still there was no show of any
appetite for the feed that was under and all around him.

As Clint worked in the corral busy with other broncs he'd look thru the
bars for any show of interest in the little horse, he'd look often but
most every time that pony's position was about the same, and if he did
catch him with his head down he noticed how Smoky was just nibbling at
the feed, and not eating much.

Smoky was taking the change, from the life he'd led to what he was now
going thru kinda hard, harder than the average wild horse ever does,
and Clint layed it that the little horse had more brains than the
average, more sensitive maybe, and more able to realize.

"I guess I'd better lay off of him to-day," decides the cowboy, as
he noticed very little change in him even late that afternoon, "he's
having a hard time trying to figger things out as it is."

It was bright and early the next morning when Clint looked out of the
bunk house door and noticed Smoky out on the creek bottom. It appeared
that the little horse, after figgering and figgering, had come to some
sort of decision, and that done and settled had went to eating again,
for that's what he was doing when Clint looked out,--Smoky was eating
like he was trying to make up for the time he'd lost, and he seemed
all at peace with everything in general.

The cowboy grinned, "I know what that son of a gun has decided on,"
he remarked. "He's going to fight, and I see where I'm sure due for a
tossing from that pony to-day."

Clint done his day's work, and after riding and lining out nine head of
rough and kinky broncs, went to where Smoky was picketed and led him
into the corral where he'd been initiated a couple of days before. He
was some kind of a different horse than what he'd been that day, his
head was higher and more with just one purpose. He didn't shy and snort
at every little thing like he did that first time, and Clint noticed
that he never seemed to see the saddle as it was eased on his back and
cinched.

"I don't like the sound of them 'rollers' that's making that noise in
them nostrils of yours," he remarked; "they sound to me like you meant
business."

Smoky did mean business, and even tho Clint was doing considerable
kidding, he meant business too, he wasn't going to let the little horse
get away with anything, for he realized that if he did it'd be harder
than ever to persuade him to be good, he'd have to be treated rough,
and Clint didn't want to treat him rough.

The cowboy seen the light in Smoky's eyes and understood it, he
understood his every action, and they all meant fight.

"I'm glad to see so much spirit in you old boy," he says as he pulled
his hat down, "but if you want to fight I'll have to fight too, and
here's hoping the best one of us wins;--let's go."

Smoky only shook his head a little as Clint put his hand on his left
eye and mounted, he didn't want to notice a little thing like that,
which was just as much a warning from him for that cowboy to get set,
set well and solid, for in this next performance things was a going to
pop worse than ever.

There's a big difference between the bucking that comes with the first
setting of a bronc and the bucking that comes with the settings that
follows afterwards on that same bronc. The first time Smoky was rode
he was just a plain scared pony, of course his intentions was all to
the good towards throwing that cowboy, saddle and all, off, but he was
too scared and desperate to try and figger out how that should be done.
He'd learned from that first setting that plain bucking wouldn't faze
that rider, he'd have to use some science, and with a cool head, study
out the weak points the rider might have, and work on them weak points
till a shadow on the ground tells him the cowboy is _leaving_.

Smoky had learned that it wouldn't get him anything to stampede hot
headed into bucking like he did that first time, maybe that's what he'd
been studying on the last day or so. Anyway, he was some cool horse,
and when he "bowed his head" this time it was all done deliberate and
easy. He lined out with a few easy jumps just to sort of feel out how
that cowboy was a setting as a preliminary, and with an eye back on all
the movements of the rider as he went, he layed his plans on just how
to proceed and get his man.

It was just when Clint seemed to be riding his easiest when without
warning Smoky "broke in two" and brought out some mighty wicked
saddle-twisting, and cowboy-loosening jumps; crooked, high, and hard
hitting was them jumps. It looked to the horse like his man was
loosened at the sudden turning of events and had been shifted to one
side a little,--and that's just what Smoky was looking for to carry on
the program he'd mapped out.

It was the first encouragement that pony'd got since he first felt a
rope on him, maybe he could get it over that cowboy yet. He bucked all
the harder from the new energy the signs of winning brought him. No
chance did he give so that the cowboy would ever get back in the saddle
and straight up, and every jump from then on was used as a kind of
leverage against the rider,--he bucked in a circle and every time he'd
hit the ground he was his whole length back from where he'd started up.

The cowboy was well up on the fork of the saddle and still to one side.
Smoky bucked on, and cool as a cucumber in a mountain stream, kept
a watching and took care that he didn't buck back under him. He was
holding his own, and looked for signs of the rider loosening some more,
but no sign of that showed. The cowboy was still to one side and well
up in the saddle, but he sure hung there, and with his left hand on the
"Mecate" (hackamore rope) he kept his right up in the air and fanned on
the same as ever.

As the fight kept on and no show of the cowboy ever loosening up any
more was seen, Smoky begin to wonder. He'd tried different tactics and
with all his figgering and variety of side-winding he couldn't tear
away from that hanging hunk of humanity. He was getting tired, his
lungs begin to call for air and pretty soon he wasn't so cool no more.

All that was in him, science and everything, was brought out on a few
more earth shaking jumps, and when a glance back showed Smoky the rider
was still setting there, he got desperate again and begin to see red.
He bellered and at the same time forgot all he'd studied on in the ways
of getting his man.

[Illustration: When a glance back showed Smoky the rider was still
there, he got desperate again and begin to see red.]

The fight didn't last long after that, it was too furious and
unscientific. Smoky fought the air, the earth, and everything in
general,--nothing in perticular was his aim, and pretty soon he lined
out in long easy crowhops and then a standstill.

Clint climbed off as Smoky stood spraddle-legged and took in the air.
The little horse never seemed to notice him and in a hazy way felt the
rider's hand rubbing around his ears and straightening out his mane.

"I knowed you'd give me a tossing to-day," says Clint.

And there was one thing Smoky didn't know: it was that no time during
the fight did the cowboy feel he was losing his saddle; a setting to
one side the way he had been was just a long-staying holt of his,
something like a half nelson with the wrastler.

Poor Smoky had lost again, but in a way he'd won,--he'd won the heart
of a cowboy, cause, thru that fight that cowboy's feelings was for the
little horse. He'd seen, understood, and admired the show of thinking
qualities and the spirit which was Smoky's.

       *       *       *       *       *

The idea might be got, on account of Smoky being the steady loser,
that his spirit would get jarred and finally break, but if anybody
thinking so could of seen that horse the next day that idea would of
been scattered considerable. His time on the picket rope had been spent
on _more_ thinking and figgering, and the way he went after the tall
grass showed he meant to be in shape to carry thru whatever the new
scheme was.

And some would of thought it queer to've seen how Smoky, the steady
loser in the contest, seemed to hold no grudge or hate against the
winning cowboy. As it was, that pony seemed to welcome that human a lot
as he walked towards him the next morning, and the way he rubbed his
head against the shoulder of that smiling rider showed that the fights
in the corral had got to be some friendly. Both was mighty serious, and
both meant to win in them fights, but soon as they was over and the
dust cleared there was a feeling the likes of when two friends have an
argument, when the argument comes to an end both the loser and winner
are ready to grin, shake hands, and be friends again.

Smoky had lost out twice in trying to dodge out from under his man, but
he was nowheres near convinced as yet that it couldn't be done. The
third time Clint climed him that pony bucked harder than ever and that
cowboy just sat up there and let him. Clint had whipped _some_ horses
for bucking that way, but he'd whipped them because it was natural
orneriness that made 'em buck. With Smoky it was different, there was
no meaness in him so far,--that pony was confident that nothing could
set him once he got onto the hang of knowing how to buck real well,
and all he wanted was to be _showed_ for sure that Clint could really
set there and ride him thru his worst that way. After that was done
he'd most likely quit.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first couple of times Smoky was rode and after he'd quit his
bucking, there hadn't been much more to it excepting that Clint would
just run him around a bit and turn him a few times till the hump was
well down on that pony's back. Smoky had got to thinking that was all
would ever come of being corraled and saddled, and so, he was some
surprised, when after the bucking spell was over at that third setting,
to see the corral gate opened wide, the cowboy on him again, and
heading him for open country.

Smoky took to the high ridges like a duck takes to water, he trotted
out like a good horse, and then was put into a long lope. Covering
territory felt mighty good to the little horse for a change and he
wasn't caring much where the cowboy lined him out to. For a spell he'd
forgot the weight on his back, his ears was straight ahead, and the
hand he felt on his neck only reminded some that somebody was _with_
him.

He was needing that change after being bested again like he'd been that
third time. Clint had won once more and Smoky was a lot in favor of
something, most anything, to drive off the feeling he'd got in losing.
He was taking advantage of the run in that way and sashayed at a good
clip, all went fine, till, of a sudden a jack rabbit scared out of
his hiding place jumped up and right under Smoky's nose,--he shied
straight up and to one side, and at the same time he was scared more
by the wing of Clint's chap which had curled up and slapped along his
shoulder. Away he went to bucking once again.

The first few jumps was mighty wicked but they didn't last; he'd
already had his buck out not long before and pretty soon he
straightened into a lope once again. Clint let him lope a ways then
turned him and headed him back to the corrals, stopped him there,
turned him a few times and started him out a ways only to turn him and
bring him back again. That went on for a few minutes, and then Smoky
was unsaddled and put on the picket rope once more.

The run had tired Smoky a little and give him an appetite. He didn't
do so much figgering on how to get his man that night, and instead he
grazed more, rested some, and even slept a little. When he was led to
the corral the next day and the saddle put on he even neglected to
watch the cowboy and begin to show interest in the broncs that was in
another corral. His ambitions hadn't allowed him to do that before,
but somehow, things had changed.--Figgering ways and means of throwing
off that rider had got to be tiresome, specially when nothing but
disappointment was ever got by it; and besides that saddle and man was
getting so they wasn't so bad to stand up under no more.

But as neutral as Smoky showed and felt, that little son of a gun
bucked again. Of course there was nothing in his bucking that was so
wicked as it had been in them first three saddlings; it was more that
he felt he should buck _some_, it made him feel better, and besides he
was wanting exercise; but he raised the dust and pounded the earth in
good shape even at that, and that play of his would of throwed many a
man.

Another run like the one of the day before, a few turnings and
teachings on the feel of the rein, and Smoky was thru for another day.
He was getting used to the lay of the program Clint had set, and the
new game that was brought on right along as he was rode begin to draw
the pony's interest.

Then one day, the cowboy begin dragging a rope on him; he let it drag
quite a ways, and even tho Smoky watched it mighty close so it wouldn't
circle around his legs and throw him like most ropes always did, it
didn't worry him much. Pretty soon Clint coiled the rope up and made
a loop which he started whirling in the air,--the whirling was slow
and easy at first and done with a small loop. Smoky looked back all
interest and snorted a little; he wondered what that rope was doing up
there and what Clint was up to.

[Illustration: Smoky wondered what a rope was doing up there.]

But nothing happened only that the whirling kept up, the loop was
gradually made bigger and then it was throwed on the ground a ways
in front of him. Smoky shied and snorted and the coils shot out,
straightened, and all of it pulled up again by the cowboy, but he
didn't try to run away from it, he hadn't forgot the eddication he'd
received from the long soft picket rope. He'd learned from it that it
didn't pay to stampede when a rope was around, on account that them
ropes had a way of stopping him that couldn't at all be argued with.

Loops was made, throwed out, and drug in again one right after
another. They went one side one time, and another side the next, then
in front and back, till Smoky begin to lose fear no matter which way
the rope went or how it coiled up. It was at the point when he was
beginning to lose interest in the game that Clint roped a small bush.
The rope tightened on it and Smoky pulled,--he pulled more in wonder
what was holding him than with the idea of what he should do, but
anyway the bush came out and headed straight for Smoky as it did, he
struck at it and would of left from there, but Clint held him and made
him face it.

[Illustration: The bush came out and headed straight for Smoky.]

Smoky shook like a leaf as slow but sure the cowboy kept a pulling
the bush towards him, he struck again and snorted as it touched his
front feet, and he bucked a couple of jumps when he felt it up along
his shoulder, but there was no getting away from it; the way that bush
moved, it looked like something vicious to Smoky, and when Clint took
the rope off of it, and held it out under the pony's nose for him to
see what it was the little horse near showed signs of shame for getting
scared.

Loose stumps, branches, pieces of old wagons, and everything that could
be drug or moved was roped,--anything that was light enough was pulled
up for Smoky to investigate, and each time he was showed that he'd been
shying and fighting for no reason, till finally, nothing could be found
that brought any more than a snort from him. An old coal oil can was
then roped and brought up a rattling under Smoky's nose, but he even
stood his ground at that.

He was learned to pull on the rope and made to drag things as heavy as
a yearling critter. Then gradually Clint made him keep the rope tight
and hold it that way till a couple of light jerks on it made him give
slack. All that took time, and the cowboy learned him only one thing
each day, sometimes very little of that one thing,--but as the days
went by it all accumulated to a lot.

It done Clint's heart good to watch the way Smoky was taking to things,
his little ears worked back and forth, and with his eyes he never
missed a move that went on, his nostrils quivered at all that was new,
and the cowboy was noticing with a glad feeling that the pony was
putting a lot of trust in him, a word from that cowboy, or a touch from
his hand was getting to mean a lot when that pony was dubious or at the
point of scaring at some new happening.

Clint hunted up a bunch of cattle one day and acquainted Smoky with
some pointers in the handling of the critters. He'd haze the horse
in the bunch, cut out some fat kinky yearling, and make him put his
interest on that yearling only. All was a puzzle to Smoky at first,
and he had no idea of what he should do, but Clint give him his time,
and coaching him along it wasn't but a few days when the little
horse understood some of what was wanted of him. In the meantime the
teachings with the rope wasn't left behind, that went along with
working cattle, and once in a while Clint would snare some big calf
and make Smoky keep his nose along that rope while the calf circled,
bucked, and bellered.

Smoky showed signs of liking all that went on. He took interest in it
the same as a kid would to some new game,--he liked to chase the wild
eyed cow, turn her when she didn't want to be turned, and put her where
she didn't want to be put, he liked to hold the rope tight on one of
the critters and feel that _he_ was the one that was keeping 'er
down. It all struck him as a kind of a game where every animal before
him had to do as _he_ and the cowboy wished.

[Illustration: He liked to chase the wild-eyed cow, turn her when she
didn't want to be turned, and put her where she didn't want to be put.]

He was all for catching on and not a nerve in him was idle as Clint
would take him of evenings and ride him out for a spell, and chase, cut
out, or rope at the critter. Them goings on had his mind occupied and
the fact that he'd figger and think on the subject between times was
proved by the way he'd go at things in a decided and knowing how way,
when the day before the same thing had left him puzzled and wondering.

That little work he was getting and the all heart interest he was
finding in it, had settled him to the big change from the free life
he'd led with the old buckskin horse and the bunch of mares and
colts,--his mammy was even forgotten, and instead there'd sprouted in
him something that made him take a liking for the long lanky cowboy
that came to see and _play_ with him every day. He'd got to finding a
lot of pleasure in doing just what that cowboy wanted him to do, and
when that was done there was a hankering in him to do just a little bit
more.

That's the way Clint wanted to keep him; just a hankering to do more
would get results, and he was careful to see that the little horse
didn't tire on the work. He wanted to make it play for him and keep it
that way as long as he could, for he knowed that was the way to keep
Smoky's heart and spirit all in one hunk and intact.




                              CHAPTER VII

                       SMOKY SHOWS HIS FEELINGS


Jeff Nicks, cow foreman of the Rocking R outfit, was riding along and
headed for the horse camp where Clint was breaking horses. Spring works
was over and Jeff thinking it was a good time for him to do a little
lone riding and kinda visit the camps of the outfit, had left his straw
boss in charge of the wagon, caught his best horse and strung out to
cover some of the Rocking R territory.

It was a hot day, not a breath stirred the air, and as the old cowman
rode he lifted his hat often to kinda let a fresh supply of atmosphere
come in underneath. His big brown horse was covering ground in a
running walk, and Jeff keeping him down to that gate when he wasn't
passing a coulee nor a draw without a glance in it and then to the
skyline above. It was his habit as a cowman to keep his eyes on the job
while riding, and for the good of the company or his own, nary a thing
had ever escaped his vision unless it was just too far for that vision
to reach.

It was as he was riding along natural that way, that he noticed a thin
streak of dust to the right of him quite a ways; that dust wasn't made
by anything traveling fast, and even tho it reached up in the air
good and high Jeff could see at a glance that the dust was stirred by
something dragging.

He stopped his horse so as to get a steadier view, and pretty soon he
could make out the shape of a horse underneath that dust; something
that looked like a turned pack was fastened or hanging on to him and
dragging alongside.

Jeff had seen many happenings on the range between man and horse and
from that figgered to always investigate anything that suspicioned of
something gone wrong, and to investigate quick.--He put his horse in a
high lope. Down draws, over rolling hills, and acrost dog towns he went
all at the same speed, and pretty soon he comes to where there's only a
small ridge between him and what he wanted to investigate.

It was then that he figgered it best to take it slow till he'd seen
just what was up; if some rider had got caught in his riggin' some
way as a horse fell, and that horse was wild and unbroke, riding in
on a high lope would only make things worse and cause the horse to
stampede.--Nobody knowed that better than Jeff did.

He got off his horse, walked a ways, and peeking thru the tall grass
seen the whole goings on at a glance. Fifty yards below him was a mouse
colored horse,--looked like a half broke bronc to him on account of
the way the hackamore was rigged,--but that horse didn't act like half
broke. He was going thru a performance that most gentle broke range
horses wouldn't put up with, and that was to half carry and half drag a
man, _and on the wrong side_.

Jeff recognized that man as his "bronc peeler" Clint, and he was
all for rushing down to see what had happened and help, but he held
back,--he wasn't sure but what the mouse colored horse would scare and
run away at the sight of him, and he couldn't tell but what Clint's
hands was fastened to the saddle horn the way he was hanging on.

He could see there was still life in the rider, but if the man was
conscious he wasn't showing very good sense by hanging on the wrong
side of a half broke horse that way. Still, as he watched, Jeff begin
to wonder. He noticed for one thing that the horse was headed straight
for camp, Clint's camp, and then there was another thing he noticed
and which made him wonder and watch more than ever--The mouse colored
gelding wasn't dragging his man, he was more kinda helping him along
seemed like, each step that horse took was with care and in favor of
the man alongside; the pony watched every move that man made, and if
the steps sorta lagged or hesitated he stopped or slowed down till the
man braced up some and went again.

Jeff's mouth was wide open with wonder as he watched the goings on, and
when a little while later the gelding happened along a big rock, and
seen him stop while the man tried to use the rock to get from it up in
the saddle, Jeff wondered some more.

"By japers, I've seen and handled thousands of horses," says Jeff, "but
I never thought any horse ever had that much sense."

The old cowman watched for near a half an hour while Clint tried to
get on his horse. He seen the horse stand there, all patience and a
helping the best he could, and finally, with the help of the rock, the
favoring of the horse, and the little strength the man had, and all
put together, Clint was setting in the saddle at last. The hackamore
reins was hanging loose; nothing was holding that pony from bucking,
stampeding, or do anything he pleased, but he stepped slow and easy,
and ears cocked ahead, packed his man to camp with the same care any
human would take.

Jeff got on his horse and keeping well behind followed. What he'd just
seen had got him to the point where he begin a talking to himself, his
horse, and the country around.

"Yessir, by japers, and he let Clint get on him from the wrong side
too, why this daggone old gentle horse I'm riding now wouldn't let
me do that--But then, maybe I better not be too sure about that, I'm
beginning to believe from what I've just seen that there's things going
on in horses' think tanks that's mighty surprising and which don't come
out till the right time shows up."

A couple of hours and the camp was reached. Jeff looked around the big
corrals as he rode closer for signs of Clint and the mouse colored
bronc, and sure enough, there the both of 'em are,--Clint is still in
the saddle and to all appearance unconscious; the gelding is standing
by the corral gate, still, and waiting.

The cowman rode on towards 'em, but he soon had to stop, for he noticed
as the gelding sees him how by that pony's action, he wasn't for
standing in one spot no longer at the sight of a strange rider coming
on him that way. Jeff had to manouver around considerable to keep that
horse from hightailing it. The only way he could do it was to go back
the way he came till out of sight, once there he circled around till he
came up on the camp from the opposite side, the corrals and a long shed
was between him and the half broke horse with his unconscious rider.

Jeff left his horse out of sight, and hugging close to the shed made
his way to where the mouse colored gelding had been; a peek thru a
hole in the wall showed him the horse was still there, and Clint still
in the saddle. How to proceed from then on was a sort of ticklish
proposition. Jeff didn't want the pony to get scared, run away and
throw the hurt rider, and still, he couldn't let the rider stay where
he was.

He had to take a chance and do the best he could. Around the corner of
the shed he came, and slow and easy, showed himself to the wild eyed
gelding; he talked to him, and that seemed to help some, for the little
horse stood his ground. _Stood his ground_ is correct, but Jeff had
hesitated somehow from coming any closer,--he noticed a light in that
pony's eyes which warned him plain to keep his distance, and even tho
Jeff was half peeved and half leary at the stand the pony had took he
couldn't help but admire the show of liking that half broke gelding had
for the rider that was still unconscious in the saddle, and laying with
his head on the pony's bowed neck.

The horse's actions had all been a puzzle to Jeff at first, and as he
finally understood, it all left him mighty surprised and in a trance
with wonder. He'd expected that horse to start running away at the
sight of him, but instead, he was showing fight, the pony wasn't
wanting to go no further with the hurt rider, he wasn't going to trust
no strange human with that helpless pardner of his.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two months or more had passed since Clint and Smoky had met in the dust
of the bare corral. In that time the man and horse'd had fights, some
had been mighty wicked, and the wild horse would of killed the man too
if the chance had come, but all thru them fights the man had won,--slow
and easy, but he'd won. Then gradually Smoky begin to get confidence in
the human, and then a liking; he'd got to looking for his company and
would nicker with a glad feeling as he'd see that human come towards
him of evenings, and he'd go the length of his picket rope to meet him.

Steady good treatment from the rider, no matter what the horse done,
had won that pony's heart, till the little horse could near be seen
smiling with the happy feeling that was his every time Clint came,
saddled him, and rode him out for a little play with the rope and
critter.

That's the way Smoky's feelings had come to be for the bow legged
rider, and taking all as was, it's no wonder the horse showed fight
when a strange human appeared. In his life Smoky had seen no other but
Clint; he knowed _him_, but he didn't know the others, and he had no
more love for them than he had when he was first run in from his free
range. Them others was still enemies to him, and right then when that
pony felt his pardner was depending on him most, he was sure ready to
paw the daylight out of that stranger if he came any closer. He was
his enemy, and according to his way of thinking, he was or should be
Clint's enemy too.

Jeff stood there figgering for quite a spell a trying to digest and
believe what that pony showed, it couldn't come to him to hurt or kill
such a horse so as to get the man, and he'd just decided to get his
rope, throw a loop over his head and snub him close to the corral, when
the rider begin to show signs of life.

"Come to, Clint," hollered the cowman as he noticed the rider move,
"and get off that horse."

Clint raised his head some at the sound of the voice, and as Jeff
kept a speaking to him he made a big effort to understand and try to
do as he was told. Pain showed in his face as he tried to straighten
himself in the saddle, and as Jeff feared that the rider would lose
consciousness again he hollered at him not to try to straighten up, but
just slide off and hang on.

With a lot of pain and time and coaching from Jeff, Clint finally
managed to raise one leg over the cantle of the saddle and let
himself slide to the ground. Smoky stood still as a statue and as
solid, his eyes was on Jeff with a steady warning for him to keep his
distance--and Jeff did.

[Illustration: Smoky's eyes was on Jeff with a steady warning in 'em
for him to keep his distance--and Jeff did.]

"Hang on to the saddle," coached Jeff, "try and get the horse thru the
gate in the corral, and I'll close the gate on him."

That was done in time, and as the gate was closed Clint's hands went
limp and he fell to the ground. Lucky it was that Jeff could reach him
thru the corral bars, but he had to do considerable manouvering even
then to get the cowboy thru and under so as not to stir Smoky. And it
was a mighty good thing for Jeff as he picked Clint up and started
towards the house that there was bars high and strong between him and
that pony, for as high and strong as that corral was Jeff worried some
and, looking back over his shoulder as he went, wondered if it would
hold him.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sun had sunk away, and dark had come before Clint came to well
enough so things was plain to him and he could talk. Jeff had made him
as comfortable as was possible, boiled some "jerky" and made a strong
broth which he was holding under Clint's nose for him to sniff at.

That cowboy sniffed, looked around, and then said, "where's Smoky?"

"If you mean that mouse colored fighting son of a gun of a horse you
was on," says Jeff, "why he's in the corral, and a fretting his head
that I'm going to eat you up."

Clint couldn't quite get the meaning of that just then, and he asked,
"I wonder if you wouldn't go take the saddle off of him and put him on
the picket rope where he'd get something to eat. He's gentle, and you
can handle him easy."

Jeff snorted and laughed, "gentle,----? I wouldn't try to handle him if
you'd give me this whole outfit, I'm not enough of a bronc fighter no
more, and that aint all, that pony is just a hankering for me to stick
my beezer thru that corral."

Smoky circled around the corral not at all minding the saddle
that was on him, he wasn't caring for any grass either, he was too
peeved and restless. If Clint had been right side up and able, things
would of been different and Smoky would of hardly even noticed the
stranger.--There seems to be a heap of difference in the feelings of
any thinking animal when a pardner is sick or dying,--the little horse
knowed as well as any human that something had went wrong with his
pardner, and the appearance of the stranger at such a time was worrying
him.

The next day was well along and the sun getting high, when Jeff helped
Clint on his feet and half carried him towards the corral where Smoky
had put in the night. Clint staggered on alone from the gate and the
little horse nickering came to meet him,--his ears was all ahead and
with his eyes a shining, he looked all interest and like he wanted
to ask questions. He then spotted Jeff, and at the sight of him, his
expression changed, his eyes showed fire, and his ears layed back on
his neck.

"Well, I'll be daggoned," says Clint as he noticed the horse's actions.
He looked back at the old cowman and grinned, wondering,--but the old
cowman wasn't grinning any. Jeff figgered it best for him to vanish for
a spell, Smoky was unsaddled, and put on good feed and water, which all
seemed to take Clint a powerful lot of time; but he finally showed up
and Jeff helped him back to the house.

It was on the way over that Clint begin to speak, and on a subject
that'd been on his mind for a long time. "You know, Jeff," he says, "I
think the time has come for me to quit riding broncs, I feel like I
better quit, specially after this last that's happened to me."

"What _did_ happen anyway?" asks Jeff.

"It was all on account of a fool cow," starts Clint, "she'd showed
signs of wanting to leave the country soon as she seen me riding up on
her, and being she was good and fast, I figgered it'd be a good time
to line Smoky out after her and let him turn 'er over a few times. I
throwed my rope but the loop didn't land good, it just sorta sailed in
front of her, and she stepped in it. About that time I jerked up my
slack and I jerked it too hard. Down went the critter all in a heap and
sudden, so sudden that with the speed Smoky was going he couldn't stop
in time, and first thing we knowed we both was straddle the critter.

"But she didn't stay down long, she got up just at the wrong time and
just right to yank Smoky's front feet from under him, raise him up in
the air with me on top, and just turned us a couple of somersets before
we landed on the other side.

"I didn't know much more after that, till now, I just sorta felt a
weight on my back, and that was all. Maybe I got under Smoky somehow
as we fell, but I think it's that fool cow that stepped on me and
separated me from my thoughts.

"I'll most likely be all right in a few days, but I recognize this
ailing. I got hurt a few years ago from an ornery black horse I was
breaking for the Three C's, and being that I don't want this ailing to
come back with me to stay, I figger I better quit riding rough ones.
There's other parts of me that's hankering for me to quit too, and
if you'll let me join the boys at the wagon, I'm mighty willing that
somebody else gets my job here."

Clint was quiet for a spell, and then pretty soon he goes on, "But
there's one favor I want to ask, Jeff, if you'll let me stay with the
outfit, I want to ask that you let me keep Smoky in my string and as
long as I'm with the company."

What the cowboy had just said come from what he'd figgered, thought
out, and worried on, ever since he'd first set eyes on Smoky. Clint
liked all horses, maybe a little too much, but even at that he liked
Smoky still more. The fear that somebody else would lay claim to the
horse'd had him doing some tall thinking. He knowed that as long as he
was breaking horses his work would come with raw broncs only and all
half broke horses would be took away from him as fast as he'd turn 'em
out. Smoky would had to go too.

And that's where the hitch came. He figgered he'd have to quit breaking
horses and go to riding the range, and take the big chance that the
horse might be took away from him even then. He'd noticed how Jeff had
stood, watched, and admired Smoky, and if signs of a human wanting
anything right bad ever showed, there was never no signs more visible
than Clint had seen on Jeff's features when the horse was in sight.

There'd been only one way out for the cowboy, and he'd took it.--There
was a worried look on his face as he glanced at the foreman and waited
for him to answer, but Jeff didn't seem to want to answer right then,
and instead he asked:

"How long have you had that horse up, Clint?"

"Two months and maybe a little over," says Clint, wondering some at the
question.

"Wasn't there a couple of boys here about a month ago to get _all_ the
broncs you'd started?"

"Yes."

"Well then, why didn't you let 'em have that horse Smoky, he was as
well broke then as any of the broncs the boys came after, wasn't he?"

Clint begin to take interest in looking at the wall of the bunk house
about that time. He grinned a little, and finally he answered:

"Well, Jeff, I guess you know why."

Jeff did know why, and knowed it a plenty. What he'd seen going on
between Smoky and the cowboy the day before and that morning had
already answered why Clint had hid the horse when the boys came to haze
away the broncs he'd "started." The foreman grinned back at the layed
up rider and placed a hand on his shoulder, the same as to say that he
understood.

"As long as I'm with this outfit," he says, "and which from all
indications will be a long time, you're mighty welcome to join the
wagon as one of my riders. You'll be getting 'top-hand' wages too,
Clint, the best string of ponies I can put together, and as for Smoky,
why--I sure would like that horse."

Clint's heart fluttered up his throat and came near choking him--"Yep!
I'd sure like to have him," went on the foreman "but, after thinking it
all over, I figger that horse really belongs to you more than he does
to the company or me. He's a one man horse and you're the one man,
Clint, and even if the horse took a liking to me, which I know wont
happen, I'll sure never want to take him away from you--not after what
I've seen."

       *       *       *       *       *

Clint had underfiggered considerable when he'd said how he thought
he'd be all right again in a few days. A week passed and very little
strength had gathered from his hips up, his back felt as broke, and he
had no power to straighten up again once he'd stoop, he couldn't even
pick up a spur.

A new rider came one day and took up Clint's work where he'd left it.
From that time on Clint hung around the corrals a talking and watching
the new "hand" ride, and when he wasn't by the corrals, he could be
seen in the shade of the big willows in the creek bottom where Smoky
was picketed.

Clint had looked at Smoky in a new way since Jeff had come and left.
The visit of the old cowboy had brought out things in that little horse
which Clint hadn't dreamed of ever being in any horse. He'd been mighty
surprised, and then sort of proud that he could raise such a feeling in
the gelding--The horse was good as his too,--that put the cap on his
worries of losing him, and all was well.

       *       *       *       *       *

A month went by, the round up wagons was stringing out for the fall
works, and the cow with the big "weaner" calf was hunting a hole.
There was twenty-two riders with Jeff Nick's wagon, and amongst 'em a
grinning from ear to ear at some joke a cowboy had sprung was Clint,
and riding Smoky.

Long days of rest had put that cowboy in shape to ride, but not to ride
broncs, and when he at last felt that he could make a hand at riding
"circle," "herd," and "night guard" Smoky had been saddled and rode to
the home ranch, where the wagon was to start from.

Smoky'd had a long month's rest before Clint saddled and rode him out
that morning, and even tho the rider looked O. K. again to the little
horse, there was a feel from the hackamore rein that as much as asked
him not to buck. He'd bucked that day when Clint had met too much cow,
and far as that goes, he'd bucked some at every saddling, but as the
cowboy started him out for open country and the home ranch that morning
he was made to feel that he should keep his head up for once and line
out without a kink.

The home ranch had been reached a couple of days later, and there's
where Smoky'd got his first look at a busy cow outfit's main camp.
Cowboys was everywhere, and more of 'em than he could keep track of;
big corrals full of horses, and more horses under the big sheds. Wagons
and tents, and when the round up cook rushed out of a log house to one
side and pranced up to try and shake hands with Clint, Smoky let out a
snort and shied out of reach.

"Daggone it, Clint," says that hombre, "I was told you'd quit riding
broncs--what in samhill do you call that spooky thing you're setting on
now?"

"Some horse," answers Clint, grinning.

Smoky felt some easier when he was finally unsaddled and turned in
amongst the other saddle horses. He took a good roll, shook himself,
and proceeded to get acquainted. It didn't worry him none that very
few of the ponies seemed to want his company and he was mighty busy
going from one of the big corrals into another and giving 'em all
the once over. He finally run acrost a bay gelding which seemed some
familiar, and Smoky must of seemed the same to that gelding too for
both of 'em started to show interest at once and came to meet one
another.

Necks bowed, they touched nostrils, some explaining and understanding
must of went on cause it wasn't but a few minutes later when each was
scratching the other's neck like two brothers--and that's what they
was, _brothers_. The bay horse was none other than the little colt,
growed up, and which his mammy had brought in the bunch one day over
three years before.

Signs showed where the saddle had been on his back too. A cowboy had
run him in a couple of weeks before and passed the remark as he piled
his rope on him that, "This little bay horse sure showed the makings of
a cowhorse."

Jeff had agreed, and that's how come Smoky found him in amongst the
saddle horses that day. He'd showed some of how he'd took a _natural_
liking for the bay, and if one didn't recognize a brother in the other
the way they went at scratching each other's withers couldn't of meant
much.

It was thru an intermission at wither scratching that Smoky seen Clint
open the outside gate of the corral and walk in. Alongside of him was
Jeff Nicks who'd come along to point out Clint's string of ponies.
Smoky watched them two for quite a spell, he watched Jeff the most,
but pretty soon went to scratching his brother's withers again. Clint
was all right now and well able to take care of himself, he must of
thought--Anyway there wasn't the feeling in him that Clint needed any
protection.

Clint had come to see him that evening, and he'd noticed as his pardner
came that some of the cowboys was watching him from the next corral. He
looked over Clint's shoulder at 'em and sent out a long whistling snort.

"I'm glad Clint didn't break all the broncs like he did that one,"
remarked one of the boys as he seen the fight in that pony's eyes.

"Yep!" says another, "he sure made a _one man_ horse out of him."

Smoky was turned out in the big pasture that night with the other
horses. Him and his brother paired off soon as they was out of the
corrals and fed together till daybreak brought a rider on the sky line
who corraled 'em all for the new day's work.

That day's work started early. Sun up found all the boys on their
horses, the chuck wagon, bed wagon and wood wagon teams was all hooked
on and ready to start at a wave of the hand from Jeff. Jeff waved,
and away all went thru the big gates leading out of the home ranch,
three wagons strung out, a "remuda" (saddle bunch) of two hundred
saddle horses followed, and on the "swing" (sides) of the whole outfit
twenty-two riders, riding good and bad horses, loped along--The fall
round up had started.




                             CHAPTER VIII

                           SMOKY STARTS OUT


The first day of the fall round up was to Smoky a whole lot like the
first day of school to the kid of the settlement, only, Smoky was full
grown and his brain full developed. His eyes stayed wide open and
worked with his ears so that nothing of interest would be missed.

There was so much that was strange and which kept his senses on the
jump. The big wagons with the four and six horse teams done a lot of
spooky rattling as they followed the pilot, sometimes on a high lope,
across the rolling prairie, over benches and down draws. Then trailing
along close behind the thumping of hoofs of many ponies, the remuda,
made a sound which hinted everything to Smoky, everything from a
stampede on up, and if it hadn't been for the hand that once in a while
was felt on his neck, and the voice which he heard and knowed so well
the little horse would of sure left a streak of dust and away from all
that confusion of wagons and men.

There was too many riders around him. They all kept too close, and once
in a while as the outfit sashayed on towards the first camp grounds and
some bronc would bust out a bucking and a trying to shed off a cowboy,
Smoky felt a lot like doing the same. But always, and whenever he felt
like "kettling" the most, Clint's hand and voice was there to quiet
him down. That hand and voice worked the same as to prove to Smoky,
that as long as Clint was around close there was nothing for him to
fear.

As the outfit rambled on, Clint gradually reined Smoky to one side till
he was well away and where he would feel more at ease to watch without
fear all what the layout had to show that was strange. Smoky's ears
then perked up in a different angle, and as Clint talked to him that
spooky looking outfit lining out acrost the range got to look less
spooky and more interesting.

Smoky followed the outfit and watched it till the sun was well up in
the middle of the sky, then the pilot raised his hand, made a circle
and the wagons followed him to a standstill. A dry camp was made and
the cook had the pots to working a few minutes after the outfit had
come to a stop. The rope corrals was strung out in the wink of an eye
and the remuda run in.

Smoky had watched the whole proceedings with a lot of interest, the
many horses, men, and all had him to using his eyes and ears to the
limit, and the low snorts he'd let out every once in a while as he
turned to watch all that went on, was as plain as talk, that for
excitement this sure had everything he'd ever seen before beat to a
frazzle.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Come and get it, you Rannies!" It was the cook's holler for the riders
to come and eat. About then Smoky seen Clint headed towards him and
where he'd been left picketed. A little rub back of the ear and Smoky
was led to the rope corral, unsaddled, and turned in with the remuda.

"Have a good roll, Smoky horse," says Clint as he turned him loose,
"and don't let no ornery pony get the best of you."

Smoky looked back at Clint for a spell the same as to ask him where
_he_ was going, and as the cowboy stood there watching the little horse
moseyed on and disappeared amongst the saddle bunch.

The "round-up pan" was filling up with the tin cups and plates as the
cowboys, thru eating, was making their way towards their saddles by the
rope corrals. A hard twist catch rope was unbuckled from them saddles,
loops was shook out, and pretty soon them same loops begin a sailing
and a reaching out like a mighty long arm for the horse each cowboy
picked out for that afternoon's ride.

Smoky seen and heard the hiss of them loops as they sailed on over past
him to settle around some other pony's neck, and even tho all was done
quiet so none of the horses would start running too much, Smoky had
a mighty restless feeling whenever them snaky ropes appeared. Clint
hadn't roped him only once and that was when he was a raw bronc, but
he hadn't forgot the feeling that'd been his when that same rope had
caught him, stretched him out, and left him plumb helpless.

His brain was near stampeding with him at the sound of so many ropes,
and once in a while when he'd spot some strange rider carrying one
of them hated coils the sight made him hit for the middle of the
herd,--but even there he wasn't safe, for there was no telling how far
them ropes could reach.

It was in winding around and thru the thick of the herd, that Smoky
found himself on the edge and crowded against the big rope cable which
was the corral. The sight that met his eye there had him wanting to
hide back in the middle of the herd once again, but he had no chance,
the herd had him wedged where he couldn't move and as it was he had to
stare wild eyed at all that was there for him to see.

A few feet away was half a dozen riders saddling up, and that's what
kettled Smoky,--the few feet that was between him and them strangers
was too close for comfort. He was just about to try another grand rush
to get back into the middle of the herd when the sound of something
familiar made him hesitate. It was the ring of a spur rowel, a ring
he'd heard often, and pretty soon Smoky spots Clint only a few feet
away from him and leading a strange horse to his saddle.

Smoky stuck his head and neck out far as he could and nickered at the
sight of the cowboy, and that cowboy having his attention some other
direction at the time was made to turn mighty quick as the well known
nicker was heard.--There was all in Smoky's looks and nicker that
seemed to say "Pardner, I need help."

[Illustration: Smoky stuck his head and neck out far as he could and
nickered at the sight of the cowboy.]

Clint laughed, but the laugh wasn't of the kind that comes from a joke.

"What's the matter, little horse?"

But Clint knowed what was the matter, he could hear the thump thump
of Smoky's heart as he came nearer, and feel the throb of it as he
layed a hand on his neck. He rubbed on the slick hide a spell, and that
cowboy experienced a mighty great feeling when he noticed as he stayed,
that gradually the pony's heart beats begin to slow down and soon was
behaving normal again.

Smoky watched the cowboy leave him to go to where his saddle was laying
on the ground out a ways. He watched him put the saddle on the strange
horse, and when Clint came back leading the horse and finished saddling
by Smoky, that pony nipped at the cowboy's chap' leg the same as to say
"Stick around a spell."

Clint did stick around for a spell. He wasted a lot of good company
time fooling with the latigos and seeing that his rope was coiled up
neat, and even tho he knowed that as a good cowboy he should been
helping tearing down camp, he stuck by the corral and Smoky till the
last rider had caught, saddled, and rode his horse away. The remuda was
let out then, the wrangler circled the bunch and started grazing 'em
till the wagons started again for that night's grounds.

Smoky was hazed along and lost in the big horse herd, Clint watched
him and when he couldn't see him no more started coiling up the big
cable, which was the rope corral used on open range, and with the help
of another rider put it in one of the wagons where it'd be easy reached
again.

It'd been less than an hour since the cook had stopped his team and
jumped off the wagon to cook the cowboys' noon bait, and now he was
up on the wagon again and waiting there for the boys to finish hooking
up his team and hand him the "ribbons"--Soon enough that was done,
the pilot started and the cook warwhooped his broncs into a running
start, the bed wagon, loaded down with twenty some odd "Montana Rolls,"
took up the swing, and the wood wagon tagged along behind. Then came
the remuda of over two hundred saddle horses and hazing 'em was the
"Wrangatang" (day wrangler).

The first "circle" of the fall round up was on that afternoon--The
circle starts from wherever the round-up wagon might be. The round-up
wagon of most countries is composed of three wagons, one for "chuck"
and pots and the cook, another for the riders' bedding which is rolled
in big canvas tarpaulins. It takes quite some bedding for twenty or
more men, specially in countries where it's apt to snow in the middle
of June. The third wagon is for wood and water and which is used in
prairie countries where there's neither wood or water to be found for a
ways.

The cook drives his chuckwagon, the "flunky" (cook's helper) drives the
bed wagon, and the "nighthawk" (rider who herds the remuda at night)
drives the wood wagon. Them three wagons which is called "The Wagon"
is the cowboys' home while on the range. It carries his grub, his
"war bag" (bag of clothes), his bedding, and strips of rawhide which
he salts down and sometimes cuts into strings and braids things like
"bosals" (nose bands) or such.

"The Wagon" moves camp most every day, and sometimes twice and three
times a day, all depends on how quick the country is "worked." The
"circle" starts from "The Wagon." The twenty or more riders and the
cow foreman ride straight to some point for ten or fifteen miles. On
top of some butte the bunch stops, then the cow foreman "scatters the
riders." He'll send 'em in pairs to the right, left, and straight ahead
and spread 'em fan shape to a certain point where they turn, or where
there's no more cattle to be seen, and they'll head back towards the
wagon again, bringing with 'em all the cattle that's seen in the ride.

That's what's called a "circle." It averages twenty-five miles and
ends at the wagon where all the riders meet again each bringing with
'em whatever cattle was found. The wagon might of moved and a new camp
set up while the boys was out on "circle," but wherever the wagon is
that's where the "circle" ends. To one side of the camp a mile or so
the "cutting grounds" where the herd is "worked" is the spot where all
the cattle is brought to from that one "circle" and held there for
branding, and cutting out whatever is not wanted. Two "circles" are
made a day.

Soon as Jeff, the cow foreman, seen the wagons lining out in good shape
for that night's camp he put his horse in a high lope and looking back
at the boys that was doing their best in putting up a ride on the
sun-fishing ponies, he grinned as he seen that all stuck on and fanned,
and felt mighty proud of being the cow boss of such a bunch of riders.

Clint was riding a big "apelusa" called Chapo, and one of the best
circle horses the outfit had, but he wasn't appreciating him much just
then, and as he rode along leaving the wagons and remuda to his left
his eyes was a whole lot on the dust that remuda made, and a trying to
get a glimpse of a mouse colored piece of horseflesh which he'd called
Smoky.

But Smoky was getting along fine as he trotted and loped along on
the trail of the wagons. He'd no more than left Clint by the rope
corral when he run acrost that brother of his again and after the two
nickered "Howdedoos" at one another they trailed along side by side,
plum contented with everything in general. The sound of the dozen or so
bells that was strapped to the necks of the oldest and wisest ponies
was new and mighty pleasant to Smoky's ears and it was good to be
roaming again and with so much company.

It was middle afternoon when the pilot came to a big creek bottom and
circled by a grove of willows and cottonwoods. The second camp of that
day was made, the wrangler let the remuda come to a walk and pretty
soon left 'em to graze on towards the creek a half a mile below camp,
and as he seen that all seemed contented to graze, drink, and roll,
he left 'em to go and put up the rope corral, snake in wood for the
cook, and whatever other things that's all the responsibilities of the
wrangatang.

He kept one eye on the ponies as he worked and if any restless bronc
showed indications of wanting to start drifting that boy jumped on
his horse, turned him, and watched for a spell till that bronc seemed
satisfied to stay. Many a wrangler had used the excuse of "hard-to-hold
ponies" just so he could get away from too much work, and most always
it was a mighty good excuse too.

But Smoky and Pecos, which was his brother, had give no such a excuse
to the wrangler. They both seemed mighty satisfied, and after they'd
had a good drink in the cool stream, and a good roll afterwards put
their time in getting away with all the blue joint grass they could.
Every once in a while Smoky would raise his head, and chewing on a
mouthful of the tall feed, would look up at the ridges around him, then
towards the camp and wonder at the noise the cook was making with his
pots and pans. All had him interested, it was all new, and with the
nicker he'd often hear from one side of the scattered remuda and then
the other, the steady ring of the horse bells and all, the little horse
wasn't hankering for anything only just what he was in the thick of.

He'd been grazing for a good long time, and the sun was hitting towards
the ridges to the west, when to the south a ways he noticed a big dust
a soaring up the sky and a mile high. There was a steady rumbling noise
as the dust came closer and pretty soon he could make out the bellering
of the critter. A big herd it was, the "combings" of the first
"circle," and a thousand head or more of white-faced, brockle-faced,
speckled, red, black, and all colors and sizes of range cattle topped a
ridge and on a high lope was swung towards the "cutting grounds."

About that time the horse wrangler fogged in on the remuda, and in
a short while Smoky and all the ponies found themselves in the rope
corral once again; the cowboys was needing fresh horses and catch
ropes begin a sailing once more as the twenty and more of 'em snared
their "cut" horses, a few snaked out broncs and pretty soon all hands
was mounted again, and working the herd they'd brought in.

Smoky was spooked up once more as he heard the ropes sing over his
ears. He heard a familiar voice say "How's she going, Smoky?" but the
little horse was busy hunting a hole about that time and he was too
excited to nicker an answer. Then, after what seemed an awful long time
to Smoky, the ponies was left out of the corral once more and when the
wrangler checked 'em all to graze, him and Pecos was in the lead.

The ponies was grazing on a low bench and on the opposite side of the
creek from where the cattle herd was being worked. Many was cut out and
started back on the same range from where they come, and pretty soon
Smoky's sensitive nostrils smelled the smoke from the fire that kept
the branding irons hot; then the smell of burnt hair followed, he heard
the beller of the critters, and snorting sorta low and in wonder the
mouse colored pony watched.

He watched the riders at work, seen long ropes a swinging, and how them
long ropes would stop the bunch-quitting steer; he was familiar with
some of that and somehow there came in him a hunch that he'd like to be
closer; there was something about the workings of that herd across the
creek that had his blood racing above natural, and he felt a kind of a
call for the whole of the goings on, a call of the kind he couldn't as
yet understand, but it was there sure enough.

Finally, the smell of singed hair wasn't on the breeze no more,
branding was over for that day, and the last rope was coiled up and
fastened by the saddle horn. Smoky watched as all but a few riders left
the herd and headed for camp, he went to grazing then, and neck and
neck with Pecos he listened to the rattle of tin plates and the laugh
of the cowboys as he nosed around for the tenderest stems of the blue
joint.

Four riders on "cocktail" (hours between the last meal of the day and
the first night guard) got on their horses and rode to "relieve" the
riders holding the herd, and it wasn't long after that when the quiet
of the evening settled on the range. Even the critter seemed to want
to stop bellering for a spell at that time, most of the bells of the
remuda was quiet and the ponies was dozing.

Smoky had been dozing too, but pretty soon his ears perked up at a
sound the likes of which he'd never heard before, the sound came from
the camp, and strange as it was there was something about it that
wasn't at all aggravating.

Around a good size fire was gathered the cowboys,--the cook, the
flunky, the wrangler, Jeff the foreman and all was in the circle, all
but the four riders on "cocktail" and the "nighthawk" who'd took the
wrangler's place for the night's herding of the saddle horses. Most
of the boys was setting on or leaning against a big roll of tarpaulin
covered bedding, and one closest to the fire was a working away trying
to get a tune on his mouth organ.

That was the sound which'd come to Smoky's ears, the older cowhorses
all knowed that sound well, and if any of 'em could of packed a tune
there'd been many in the remuda a humming.

The song that was being worked at just then had been heard at all the
cow camps and round up wagons of the cow country for many years, and
handed down from the injun fighting cowboy to the son that took up the
trail where he left it and when the horns on the critter wasn't so long
no more. There was a lot of memories stirred up whenever them songs
was heard and many a cowboy got sentimental at the sound of 'em, for
most all cowboys can remember some quiet night when the time of such a
song was spread around the herd;--then of a sudden and for no reason a
stampede is in full swing, a dead cowboy is found under his horse at
the bottom of a fifty foot jump off, and leaves only the memory of the
song he'd been singing that night.

    "Oh, I'm a Texas cowbo-o-oy, and far away from home,
    And if I ever get back again no more will I ever roam,
    Wyoming's too cold for me-e-e, the winters are too long,
    And when round up comes again, my money's all go-o-o-_ne_."

Clint had got harmonious, and with the other cowboy a trying to keep up
on the mouth organ was singing the song, he mixed in about ten verses
and took in other songs as he went, the tunes changed some, but the
"Texas whang" he carried with the tunes made 'em more or less alike and
all appreciated the same.

The last verse had died down, some of the boys looked up expecting
more, and others, hat brim pulled down, was stargazing at the fire and
letting the memories the songs had brought lead 'em back to times and
happenings that'd been stirred the most.

All was quiet, excepting for the crackling of the fire, and one of the
boys was just about to speak the name of some other old song when off
from the direction where the remuda was held, a nicker was heard.

Clint looked towards where the familiar nicker had come and
smiled,--the cowboy's voice had carried to where Smoky had been
grazing, and the little horse had stopped grinding on his feed soon as
the first verse had hit his ears, he'd listened on thru to the end,
nickered, and watched the fire on the creek bottom from where the voice
had come.

He watched it long into the night till all was quiet and the fire had
dwindled down to coals; time for first night guard to be relieved was
near and Smoky was still watching. Pecos was dozing off a ways, and
pretty soon Smoky begin to feel a little groggy too and he dozed with
him.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new day was no more than hinted by the paling sky to the east when
the "nighthawk" begin bunching the ponies and hazing 'em towards camp.
It was still faint daylight when the catch ropes was a hissing over the
ponies' heads once again and loops settled around slick necks. Broncs
was drug out, and a fighting against the saddle while the sun was still
back of the ridges, but the day's work had started at the round up camp.

In a short while the remuda was let out again, and the day wrangler
started grazing 'em while the outfit broke camp for other grounds.
When all was loaded in the big wagons the pilot took the lead, and when
the sun showed up to begin its circle up above, the cook had already
moved his kitchen some ten miles and the pots was beginning to feel the
heat of the fire underneath.

Smoky was in another new country that day, and as he grazed with the
remuda he noticed the same workings of the day before, another big
herd was brought in from that morning's "circle," then one more that
afternoon, more cattle was cut out and then singed hair floated on the
breeze once more.

Twice again he was corralled with the remuda for fresh horses the
riders was needing, and the little horse was slow beginning to get used
to the sound of the ropes and the sight of the strange cowboys. Clint
was to see him at the last coralling of the day and when the nighthawk
took the ponies out for the night Smoky nipped Pecos in the flanks. He
felt playful.

Outside of the time he spent in the rope corral the little horse was
enjoying the following of the round up mighty well,--there was always
so many horses around, and all with the bellering of the big herds and
the dust that was kept up sure tallied up with the beat of his heart.
He hadn't figgered on what to expect being one of the remuda that way,
and being that he couldn't make out all that went on he didn't know
just what could be expected, and that's why maybe he wasn't worried
much.

"Going to make a very big circle this morning, Jeff?"

It was the morning of the third day that Clint asked the foreman that
question, and when Jeff answered he understood what was on Clint's
mind, he grinned at the cowboy as he spoke.

"You go ahead and ride your Smoky horse, Clint, I'll put you on the
inside circle so as it won't be too hard on him."

And that's how come when it was Smoky's turn to be rode that the
easiest was handed him. The horse spotted Clint coming towards him, a
rope was in his hands but no loop was dragging and he met the cowboy
halfways.

Of the many ponies that makes up a "remuda" there's seldom any that can
be walked up to, even the gentlest has to be roped. They're broke that
way and it all saves time, for a cowboy can stand off thirty feet, rope
his horse and start leading him out from there. It saves him many steps
and when there's so many riders and horses, them steps and the time
it'd take to make 'em sure would accumulate. Then again there's so many
wild ponies that would _have_ to be roped anyway. So making the whole
thing simple, every horse is caught with a loop. No good roper ever
whirls a loop in catching horses, and the only sound that's heard is
when the rope splits from the ground to the pony's head.

Once in a while, and even with real cow outfits that's well run,
there's exceptions in roping every horse that way. Smoky was the one
exception on the Rocking R, and every cowboy was good natured jealous
at the way that mouse colored son of a gun of a horse would stick his
head out every time Clint came around and then left his hiding place
from amongst the other horses to meet him.

Smoky knowed that something was up soon as Clint came near him, but
whatever it was he was anxious to be at it;--him and that cowboy would
get along.

The little horse humped up as he felt the cinch, and Clint grinned as
he remarked:

"Going to make this old broke-down cowboy ride this morning, huh?"

And Smoky did. He bogged his head soon as Clint was well set, and
bucked and bellered all over the flat like he was a man eating outlaw.
It was the right thing for a live horse to do them cold fall mornings,
and Clint was enjoying fanning the dust off Smoky's round rump the
same as that pony enjoyed the idea that he sure was giving somebody a
tossing.

"Better save some of that," says Clint as he finally pulled Smoky's
head up, "cause you might need all the energy you got before you get
back."

About twelve miles or so from camp a knoll was reached; from there Jeff
"scattered" his riders to circle and comb the country on the way back,
Clint and another rider was the last to be let go, and on the "inside"
brought with 'em all the cattle they found. Half ways back to camp,
Smoky begin to notice big dusts on both sides of him, them dusts kept
a getting closer and closer till pretty soon he begin to see that it
was more cattle making them dusts. Herds kept a being drove in with the
bunch Clint and the other rider had rounded up, and by the time camp
was reached, all the dusts had throwed in and made one. Twenty or more
riders and over a thousand head of cattle was turned to the cutting
grounds and held there a milling.

Smoky was tired, he'd been breathing dust and turning bleary-eyed
critters till it seemed like there'd be no end. Besides it felt awful
hot on his back where the saddle was, and even tho Clint often got off,
uncinched the saddle and raised it so the cool air could circulate
thru, it wasn't long when his back, not used to long saddling, would
feel as hot as ever again.

It was a great relief to the little horse when the saddle was pulled
off as they reached camp and the rope corral. Clint then led him to the
creek and washed the dry sweat off his back with the cool water, and as
that was done Smoky right away forgot the work of that first circle.
He felt a lot at ease with everything in general as Clint turned him
loose in the corral, and a while later when fresh horses was caught
and ropes begin sailing again, Smoky wasn't for hunting a hole like
the times before, he felt that he'd done his.--Pecos was snared while
standing a few feet from him, and then the ponies was turned loose.
But there Smoky lagged behind a little; he'd spotted Clint who was
saddling another horse, and he stood in his tracks, watching, and maybe
wondering. Then the wrangler came, and Smoky followed the remuda up the
draw.

Plenty of grass, under, and all around him, and chance to stand still
was for the first time appreciated by the mouse colored gelding.
He'd had a taste of real work, the first taste, and with it had come
the feeling that he wasn't no half broke bronc no more. He was even
beginning to look at the critter with a knowing eye and something was
sprouting up in him which left no doubt but what _he_ was the boy that
could handle 'er.

He never figgered on how much there was to learn in the ways of
handling that split-hoofed range animal,--he'd had no way to know as
yet, and as it was he grazed feeling sure that he knowed a lot about
'em. He felt equal to the old saddle marked cowhorses that was in the
same remuda and he wouldn't have nothing to do with the raw broncs that
was mixed in. But there that high opinion of himself was stopped, for
the old cowhorses wouldn't let him associate with 'em and as they'd
chase him away, he failed to notice that they felt the same about him
as he did about the uneddicated raw broncs.

But then, credit had to be handed to the little horse on account that
even tho he still had a powerful lot to learn, he sure was all for
learning, and the pride he'd naturally took in the game along with the
coaching of such a cowboy as Clint all promised that he'd sure get
there.

Smoky watched every herd that came in, followed the wagon on its
everyday move, and was even getting used to them ropes that sung over
his head three or four times a day. Of course Clint was always on hand
at each corralling to kind of help him get used to all the commotion,
and came a time when the little horse knowed exactly where and which
side of the corral that cowboy would be. His saddle was always on the
ground a few feet on the outside, and every horse he caught to ride
would always be led or "snaked" to that same spot, and Smoky got so
that whenever he was corralled he'd make a rush for that one spot where
he could easy reach Clint's shirt whenever the attention of that cowboy
was needed.

Each rider on the outfit was furnished on the average of ten horses;
there was anyway three changes of horses every day which made it that
every horse was rode from four to six hours every third day, and that's
how Smoky's turn came. Clint rode him out on "circle" three times, and
till the little horse got pretty well onto the hazing of the critter,
and then that pony was of a sudden promoted to the "day-herd" class. Of
course Smoky was somewhat of a privileged character or he wouldn't made
that so soon, but the way he took holt of the bit and went to work he
sure didn't disappoint Clint any.

The promotion started when that cowboy thought of trying him out one
day as a big herd was brought in to work. He'd changed his tired
"circle" horse to Smoky, and after that pony had his buck out he lined
him out to a standstill close to the milling critters. It was Clint's
and Smoky's job to see that none broke away outside of what was cut out
to be held for the "main herd." A dozen other riders was on the same
job and most all riding well reined cowhorses, and as Smoky noticed the
kind of company he was keeping, a ticklish feeling came between his
ears and a spark showed in his eyes.

He was about at the height of his glory and hardly able to stay on
earth, when, quick as the eye could see, a big raw-boned steer broke
out, and wild-eyed dodged past the riders and hightailed it out for
open country. In the trance Smoky was in he hardly seen anything of the
critter but a flash, but as the earth had no strings on him either just
then it only took a feel of the rein for him to be up and a flying.
That flash that went past him a second before was recognized as an
earthly critter soon as Smoky set eyes on 'er, and soon as he got the
hunch that that critter needed turning the distance between was et up
the same as tho that horse had been starving for such.

There was a mighty satisfied smile on Clint's face as the steer was
shot back in the herd the same way he'd come out, and as for Smoky,
there sure was nothing about him that suggested "the end of the trail."
He was brought to a mighty proud standstill by the herd again, and no
critter broke out that he wasn't right on the tail of from the start,
unless it was in some other rider's territory.

Working the herds that was drove to the cutting grounds, and holding
the day herd, was from then on Smoky's work. He liked working the herds
best on account there was more to do, but then day herding wasn't so
bad either, Clint always seen that his rope was kept well stretched,
and soon as he knowed the foreman was gone on circle with the other
riders he could easy find some critter he had a grudge against and pile
his rope onto, and Smoky sure enjoyed turning 'em over.

All the boys, excepting the "reps" from other outfits, had one half a
day of day herding every three days. Smoky's time to be rode came on
the dot of that time, but Clint didn't always take him out on that, and
often he'd switch so that the little horse would get plenty of work
cutting out or bringing big calves and "slicks" to the branding fire,
and that pony was sure beginning to shine there.

Once in a while tho Clint would get sort of selfish and want Smoky's
company on that long half a day's herding, and it was during them
spells that the two got to be more understanding, if that's possible,
to one another. Neither was so rushed for work then, and there was
times when the big herd of beef steers and cows and weaners would want
to graze and not try to drift away or scatter. At them times Clint
would rein Smoky up a knoll, and where both could see the whole of the
herd, he'd get out of his saddle and stretch out in the shade Smoky
made and take it easy, and there, with one eye on the cowboy the other
on the herd, and swishing flies, Smoky would stand.




                              CHAPTER IX

                           FIGHTS FOR RIGHTS


The fine, cool, and sunshiny days of fall was making a last
stand,--rains begin to come, and as time was a crawling towards early
winter, them rains got colder and then turned to a wet snow. Mud was
where dust had been, the hard-twist throw ropes had turned stiff as
steel cables, saddles and saddle blankets was wet, heavy, and cold, and
the shivering ponies met the feel of them with a hump and a buck.

The cowboys, all a packing long, yellow slickers, was beginning to
tally up on how much wages would be due 'em. As the end of the fall
round up drawed near, and as they waded thru slush and mud from the
chuck wagon to the rope corral, not many was caring. Wet socks, damp
beds, two hours of shivering on night guard, saddling ornery ponies in
daytime and when a feller can't even get a footing, and then riding
'em a wondering if them ponies will stand up as they beller and buck
on the slick and muddy ground, all left a hankering only for a warm
dugout somewheres, where there's a stove, a bunk to set on, and a few
magazines to read as mother nature does her best to make the outside
miserable.

The last of the beef herd had been turned over to another "wagon" of
the Rocking R and shipped, and Jeff's main herd was from then on made
up of cows with big weaner calves, and all stock that'd need feeding
thru the winter.

"A couple of weeks more now and we'll be seeing the gates of the home
ranch," says Jeff one day, but it was a long three weeks before the
stock was tended to and when camp was made for the last time. The wet
snow had got flaky and dry by then and six inches of it was covering
the ground.

"Now hold on a minute, Smoky, and give a feller a chance, wont you?"

It was Clint a talking, and trying to hold Smoky down till he got his
foot in the stirrup. The cowboy being all bundled up couldn't handle
himself as he'd like to, the little horse was cold, crusted snow had
to be rubbed off his back before the saddle could be put on and he was
aching to put his head down and go to bucking so he could warm up.

Clint was only half ways in the saddle when that pony lit into it, but
the cowboy didn't mind that, his blood was also a long ways from the
boiling point and any excuse to get circulating good was welcome.

Around and around him and Smoky went and all in one spot, all the fancy
twists of a bucking pony was gone over and the rider met him all the
way, and as Clint rode and fanned and laughed, he'd get fast glimpses
of other riders and other horses a tearing up the white landscape and
getting down to the earth underneath.

It was the last day of the round up, all the work was done, the cook
climbed on his seat, grabbed the lines the boys handed him, and
letting out a war whoop scared his already spooky team into a long lope
towards the home ranch.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sight of the big gates was a mighty fine one to all as the outfit
clattered in, specially with the sky a threatening the way it was, the
old cow horses had their ears pointed towards the big pole corrals.
They knowed what the sight of them meant at that time of the year and
none tried to break away as the wrangler run 'em in. They was turned
out in a big pasture that night, and the next day a couple of riders
came, bunched 'em up, and took 'em thru another gate leading out of the
ranch.

Clint had took it onto hisself to be one of them riders,--he wanted to
get another look at Smoky before letting him go to the winter range
and find out for sure just what condition that range would be in. The
outskirts of it was reached that noon and as Clint rode along back of
the remuda he was more than satisfied to notice the tall feed that the
six inches of snow couldn't hide, he noticed the breaks and the shelter
they would give, then the thick growth of willows along the creek
bottom and which meant more shelter.

Clint stopped his horse and the two hundred ponies was left to scatter.
His eyes run over the well known backs for a last time, he wouldn't
be seeing them again till spring round up started and he watched 'em
slowly graze away. Many was in that bunch that he'd broke and named,
and starting from the meanest fighting bronc of the rough string,
and taking all the ponies on up to the best cowhorse of the foreman's
string there wasn't one that Clint didn't know and know mighty well as
to tricks and good or bad points.

A big old sorrel with a kinked neck and by the name of Boar Hound
caught his eye, and Clint remembered how that pony tried to commit
suicide rather than be rode and how he'd now changed to wanting to
commit murder instead and kill a few cowboys. Then a smile spread
over his face as he spotted a tall roman nosed gruller who'd never
made a jump till a rope got under his tail. He'd took a sudden liking
to bucking from then on and made hisself a reputation at that which
scattered over four counties.

Every horse Clint looked at brought to memory some kind of a story, and
there was a variety of expressions which changed with every horse that
came under his eye. A big shaggy black looked his way and snorted and
with the sight of him Clint remembered how that horse had reached ahead
one time and kicked to pieces a cowboy that'd been unsaddling him.

His expression was mighty solemn at the thought of that, but it didn't
last long. Like a ray of sunshine, something shot out and scattered
that dark cloud of memories four ways,--Smoky had showed himself from
behind other horses and not over fifty feet from where Clint was
setting on his horse.

The cowboy's face lit up with a smile at the sight of the pony, and
getting down off his saddle he made tracks his way, but he didn't have
to go all the way, for soon as Smoky spotted him he left Pecos, his
running pardner behind, and nickering came to meet Clint.

"A feller would think to see you act that you're a sure enough sugar
eater," Clint remarked as the little horse came up to him and stopped.
He rubbed a hand on the pony's head and went on.

"Well, anyway, Smoky, I'm glad to see that you've got a mighty fine
winter range to run on; with all the feed I see here and the shelter
that's with it you hadn't ought to lose an ounce of fat," Clint felt
for the pony's ribs and grinning resumed, "and if you ever get any
fatter than you are now you'll be plum worthless."

Smoky followed Clint as he turned and went to where he'd left his
horse, "I wonder," says that cowboy, "if you've got the hunch that you
wont be seeing me no more till next spring?--that's a long time aint
it? but never mind old horse, I'm the first cowboy you're going to see
when spring does break up."

Clint was about to get on his horse and ride away, but he stopped, and
felt of Smoky's hide once more.

[Illustration: Clint was about to get on his horse and ride away, but
he stopped, and felt of Smoky's hide once more.]

"Well, so long, Smoky, take care of yourself and don't let anything
drag you down."

Smoky watched him ride away and nickered once as the cowboy went over
the point of a ridge and disappeared. He watched a long time even after
that and till he was sure Clint was gone, and finally turning went to
grazing back till he was by the side of Pecos again.

       *       *       *       *       *

The winter came and hit the range with the average amount of snow,
freeze ups, and cold winds. The cayotes howled the hunger they felt,
for there was no weak stock to speak of for them to feed off of, and
outside of small varmints they could get once in a while, pickings was
mighty poor. Horses and cattle was and stayed in fine shape and the
stockman could hit his bed after the long day's ride knowing that he
could go to sleep right off and not lay awake a wondering what he could
do to pull his stock thru.

Smoky met all what the weather had to hand him, with a good layer of
fat, a thick skin, and a long coat of hair. He lost a few ounces but
he could of spared many pounds and felt as good, feed was aplenty and
the little pawing that had to be done to reach it was like so much
exercise and only kept his blood in good circulating order.

[Illustration: Feed was aplenty and the little pawing that had to be
done to reach it was like so much exercise and only kept his blood in
good circulating order.]

The winter months wore on, the ponies drifted from ridge to ridge, from
shelter to shelter and nothing much came to disturb the quiet of the
land, nothing much excepting when a big shaggy black tried to throw
in with Pecos, the same black that'd kicked the cowboy over the Great
Divide. But his interfering and butting in was welcome tho in a way,
Smoky and Pecos had so much good energy going to waste that they'd been
just aching for some excuse to use some of it for some good.

It came about that the big black had took a liking to Pecos, and at
the same time a dislike for Smoky. Pecos was neutral for a while and
wondered what the black was up to when he tried to chase Smoky away
from him. Smoky wouldn't chase worth a nickel but he was getting
skinned up considerable a trying to hold his ground. Things went on
that way for a day or so and every once in a while the black made a
dive for Smoky like he was going to tear him to pieces,--his intentions
was good, but Smoky sure was no invalid. When the snow settled again
where he'd held his ground the little horse hadn't give away one inch.

But the black was twice as old as Smoky, more up to the game of
fighting, and heavier by a hundred pounds. All that begin to tell on
the mouse colored hide, and there might of come a time when Smoky would
of had to high-tail it, only, as the scraps was repeated off and on,
Pecos begin to notice and realize that that black was taking too much
territory, and he didn't like him nohow.

So, that's how come, that when the black put down his ears and made
another grand tearing rush for Smoky that something struck him from
the off side and upset him and his plans of attack all to pieces,--he
found hisself jerked off his feet and rolled plum over the top of Smoky
and he lit head first on the other side. When he picked himself up out
of the snow his Spirits was dampened some in wonder, and more so when
he shook his head and was able to see and noticed that there was _two_
mighty vicious looking ponies a waiting for him to come again. He shook
his head once more at that, and as Smoky and Pecos bowed their necks
and came his way the black turned tail and started a looking for other
company and which would appreciate him more.

[Illustration: The black was jerked off his feet, rolled plum over, and
he lit head first on the other side.]

But whether it was orneriness or just plain thick headedness the black
tried to butt in again the next day, maybe he just wasn't convinced,
anyway, Pecos noticed him first and before the black could even get
to Smoky. War was started right there, but Pecos was no match for the
black and even tho he wasn't for quitting, the worst of the battle
was on his side. It was about when the crusted snow was flying the
thickest that Smoky, who'd been off a ways, noticed the commotion. He
seen his pardner down on his knees and the black a chewing away on him,
and right about then the standing Smoky was transformed into a eleven
hundred pound bombshell. The explosion came as he connected with the
black and then black fur begin to fly and soar up above.--Somehow or
other the black managed to gather enough of his scattered senses to
know what had happened; them senses told him to act, and act quick,
and he did. He tore himself away from the pressing, tearing mixture
of flying hoofs and sharp teeth and split the breeze making far apart
tracks to where horseflesh wasn't so thick.

The next day he was seen with Boar Hound, the kinked necked sorrel,
the roman-nosed gruller, and a few more ornery ponies of the "rough
string." A company bunch more fitting to his kind.

       *       *       *       *       *

The days was getting longer and warmer, the snow begin packing and
melting some, and pretty soon bare patches of ground showed in plain
sight. Smoky and Pecos' hides begin a itching and the two was often
busy a scratching one another and starting from the neck went to the
withers along the backbone to the rump and back again. Big bunches of
long winter hair begin a slipping and falling to the ground as they
scratched, and came a time when as they rolled, more of that hair was
left till finally patches of short slick satin like hair begin to show.

[Illustration: Smoky and Pecos' hides begin a itching and the two was
often busy scratching one another.]

Then green and tender grass begin to loom up and plentiful, and that
finished the work of ridding the ponies' hides of all the long hair
that was left. Creeks was swelling from the waters of the fast melting
snows, spring had come and the sunshine and warm winds that came with
it was doing its work.

The round up cook was once again scrubbing on the chuck box that
was on the end of the long wagon, and the cowboys, one by one begin
a drifting in from parts near and far anxious to be starting on the
spring works again. Some came from the different cow camps of the
Rocking R range, a few of the riders that'd been let go when work was
done the fall before never showed up, but others rode in and after a
few words with Jeff took the places of them that was missing.

Clint had wintered at one of the outfit's camps and drawed his wages
regular, and when the range land begin to get bare of snow and the
watching out for weak stock was no more necessary he put his bed on one
horse, his saddle on another and headed for the home ranch. He was one
of the first riders to reach that place, and when the horse round up
started he was one of the first to have his horse saddled, topped off,
and lined out to sashay in all of the ponies that could be found on the
horse range.

Smoky had been feeding on the sunny side of a butte, and for no reason
other than to be looking around he raised his head, only his ears and
eyes showed as he looked over the top of that butte; but that was
enough for him to see a rider coming his direction, and see him before
that rider ever had a hunch any horses was around anywheres near.

Smoky snorted and hightailed it down the side of the butte to where
Pecos and a few other ponies had also been feeding, and the way he
acted left no doubt in their minds but what they should be on the move.
They all was at full speed the minute he landed amongst 'em, and when
the rider topped the butte where they'd been a few minutes before,
they had the lead on him by near a mile.

But the ponies wasn't wanting to get away near as much as might of
been thought. It was only that Smoky had got spooked up at the sudden
sight of the rider, and him and all the others feeling good as they
did wasn't needing much excuse. The cowboy fogged down on 'em and a
little to one side so as to turn 'em, they turned easy enough even tho
the rider was a long ways behind, and making a big circle that rider
finally had 'em headed towards the big corrals of the home ranch.

A big grin spread over the cowboy's features as the sun shined on the
slick back of the mouse colored horse at the lead of the bunch, and
even tho there was a half a mile between him and that horse, _that
cowboy_ knowed daggone well it was _him_, for the sun never reflected
on no other horse's hide as well as it did on Smoky's, and besides,
there was no mistaking the good feeling action of that pony's.

"Told you I'd be the first to see you when spring broke up," says the
cowboy as he held his horse down to a lope.

The twenty-five mile run from the time Smoky had been spotted kinda
filled the bill far as running was concerned, and when the long wings
of the pole corrals at the home ranch was reached the rider was right
on the ponies' tails and on the job to keep 'em going straight ahead
into the corral;--then the big gate closed in on 'em.

"Guess you don't know me no more," says Clint to Smoky as he stood
afoot in the corral and watched the pony tear around;--then to hisself:

"Maybe he don't know it's _me_ that's watching him."

Clint was right, the long winter months of freedom without seeing one
human had kind of let him get back to his natural wild instinct, and
the first sight of Clint had been of just a human, and it'd spooked him
up till he'd have to calm down some before it'd come to him just _who_
that human was.

The cowboy spoke to him as Smoky, wild eyed, snorted and hunted for a
hole, but Clint kept a speaking, and as the pony tore around and heard
the voice, something gradually came to him that seemed far away and
near forgot. He stopped a couple of times to look at the cowboy, and
each time his getting away was less rushing, till, as the voice kept a
being heard, things got clearer and clearer in that pony's brain.

Smoky had stopped once more, and neck bowed, ears straight ahead, and
eyes a sparkling, faced acrost the corral to where the cowboy, still
and standing, was talking to him.

"Daggone your little hide," says Clint, "are we going to have to get
acquainted all over again?--come on over here and let me run my hand
over that knowledge bump of yours, and maybe I can get your think tank
to functioning right again."

Smoky didn't come, but he held his ground and listened to the talk.
Clint talked on and watched him till the horse lost some of his wild
look and then slow and easy started walking his way. Something and away
in the past seemed to hold Smoky as the cowboy slowly came nearer and
nearer. His instinct was all for him a leaving the spot he was holding,
but that something which stuck in his memory was the stronger and sort
of kept him there.

Clint came on a few steps at the time, and then stopped, and talking
the while, took his time till he was within a few feet of Smoky. A
little flaw of any kind right then in that human's actions could of
spoilt things easy and sent the pony a skeedaddling away from there in
a hurry, but Clint knowed horses and specially Smoky too well to do
anything of the kind. He knowed just what was going on between that
pony's ears, and how to agree with all that mixed in there.

Finally, Clint got to where by reaching out he could near of touched
Smoky. Slow and easy the cowboy raised a hand and held it to within
a few inches of the pony's nose, Smoky looked at it and snorted, but
pretty soon he stretched his neck and mighty careful took a sniff of
the human paw. He snorted again and jerked his head away from it, but
it wasn't long when he took another sniff, then another and another,
and each time the snort growed less to be heard, till at last, Smoky
even allowed that paw to touch his nostrils, the fingers rubbed there
easy for a spell and gradually went on a rubbing along his nose
along on up to between his eyes and pretty soon between his ears to
that knowledge bump. Five minutes afterwards Smoky was following the
grinning cowboy all around the corral.

[Illustration: Slow and easy Clint raised a hand and held it to within
a few inches of his nose. Smoky stretched his neck, sniffed at it, and
snorted.]

       *       *       *       *       *

The round up wagons, all cleaned and loaded, was ready to pull out,
the remuda was all accounted for and each string pointed out to each
rider, and Jeff giving the whole outfit another look over waved a hand,
the pilot reined his horse into a bucking start, all took up his lead
and thru the big gates of the home ranch, wagons, riders, remuda, and
all lined out. The spring round up had started.

Smoky broke the record for learning that year, and when the fall round
up was over and the saddle was pulled off him for the last time before
being turned out on the winter range, there was two little white spots
of white hair showed on each side of his withers and about the size of
a dollar,--saddle marks they was, and like medals for the good work
he'd done. There was a knowing spark in his eyes for the critter too,
for the little horse had got to savvy the cow near as well as the old
cowhorses that'd been in the same remuda that year.

There was only one thing that could of been held against the good
record of that pony, and that was his bucking;--he just had to have
his little buck out every morning, and sometimes he bucked harder than
other times--that all depended on how cold the weather was--but Clint
didn't seem to mind that at all. If anything he tried to preserve that
bucking streak in the pony, and he was often heard to remark:

"A horse aint worth much unless that shows up some."

But Clint had other reasons for keeping the "buck" in Smoky's
backbone.--Old Tom Jarvis, superintendent and part owner of the Rocking
R had joined the wagon for a few days that summer and wanted to see
his cowboys work his cattle for a spell. Him being an old cowman and
from away back before cattle wore short horns made all the working of
a herd all the more interesting and to be criticized one way or the
other. He was present steady on the cutting grounds, and so was Smoky
one day.

Clint felt that the eyes of Old Tom was on Smoky the minute he rode him
to the edge of the herd, and an uneasy feeling crawled up his backbone
as he noticed that that Old Grizzly seemed to've lost his eyesight for
anything else but his Smoky horse. Clint knowed Old Tom's failing for
a good horse, and he'd heard of how many a time that same failing had
come near putting the cowman in jail for appropriating some horse he
couldn't buy;--of course them times was past, but the failing was still
in the old man's chest, and _Smoky belonged to him_.

The cowboy had started Smoky to cutting out, a work where all the good
points of a cowhorse have a chance to show up, and Smoky sure wasn't
hiding any. Old Tom's eyes was near popping out of his head as he
watched the mouse colored gelding work, and finally, as Clint noticed
all the interest, he figgered it a good idea to get out of the herd and
hide Smoky somewheres before the old cowman came to him and suggested
swapping horses; the cowboy was afraid he'd already showed too much of
that horse, and as he come out of the herd he made a circle and took
his stand away on the opposite side from where Old Tom was holding.

But Old Tom was controlling owner of that outfit and he could be any
place he wanted to on that range any time. A steer broke out, Old
Tom took after him, circled him around the herd, and when he put him
back in and brought his horse to a standstill, there was only a short
distance between him and the horse he'd had his eye on.

Clint was scared and he cussed a little. He tried to keep Smoky down
whenever a critter broke out that needed turning, and even tried to let
a couple of 'em get away, but he couldn't do it without making it too
plain to see, and besides, Smoky had ideas of his own about handling
them critters.

The cowboy was worried all the rest of the day and lost some sleep that
night a wondering how he was going to dodge Old Tom. He knowed the old
cowman would be around with some proposition to swap him out of Smoky,
and that was one of the last things the cowboy would do. There wasn't a
horse in the outfit or anywheres else he'd trade Smoky for.

It's took for granted on any real cow outfit that whenever a horse is
swapped or borrowed out of a cowboy's string and handed to somebody
else, that that cowboy is requested to quit or be fired, in other words
it's an insult that makes any real cowboy want to scrap and then ask
for his wages.

Clint was a valuable man to the outfit, but with Old Tom one cowboy
more or less didn't matter, that is if that cowboy stood between him
and a horse he wanted. He walked up to Clint the next day and not
hesitating any he says:

"I'm going to try that mouse colored horse you was riding yesterday;"
and thinking it'd please Clint to hear, he went on, "and if I like him
I'll trade you my brown horse Chico for him; he's the best horse I got
at the home ranch."

But all that only made Clint get red in the face, and fire showed in
his eyes as he spoke.

"Huh! you can't ride Smoky."

"Why in samhill cant I?" asks Old Tom, also getting red in the face.

"Cause you can't," answers Clint, "why you couldn't even put a saddle
on him."

Clint was for quitting the outfit right there and hit for some other
country, but the thought of leaving Smoky behind kinda put him to
figgering another way out;--if he could get Old Tom sort of peeved and
let him handle Smoky while he was feeling that way, most likely that
pony would do the rest.

"I'll show you whether I can saddle that horse or not," says Old Tom,
frothing at the mouth; "why I've handled and rode broncs that you
couldn't get in the same corral with, and before you even was born."

"Yep," says Clint, grinning sarcastic, "that was too long ago, and
you're too daggoned old now for that kind of a horse."

Old Tom glared at Clint for a second, and not finding no ready come
back done the next best thing and got busy. He went to his saddle,
jerked his rope off it, and spitting fire, shook out a loop that could
be heard a whistling plum to the other side of the corral.

Smoky was surprised into a dozen catfits as that same wicked loop
settled over his head and drawed tight and sudden around his neck. He
bellered and bucked thru the remuda a dragging Old Tom with him. The
old cowman made a motion and two grinning cowboys went and helped him.

Clint stood on the outside and watched the performance. He rolled
cigarette after cigarette and tore 'em up fast as they was made, not
a one was lit. He seen Smoky brought to a choking standstill and
that cowboy felt like committing murder as he noticed the fear in
that pony's eyes as he faced the strangers; but there Clint noticed
something else and which he gradually recognized as _fight_,--there was
more fight than fear, and at the sight of that the cowboy took hope.

"Since when does a cowboy get help to rope and saddle his horse," he
hollered as Old Tom was sizing up Smoky. "Pretty soon you'll be wanting
one of us to top him off for you."

It worked just right, and Old Tom's answer was only a jerk on the rope
that held Smoky. The old cowman knowed better than to handle a horse
that way and as a rule was always easy with 'em, but he was mad, mad
clear thru, and rather than shoot a cowboy he was taking it out on the
horse.

And Smoky by that time was fast catching up with the spirit of all that
went on. He was like a raw bronc that'd never seen a human or a saddle,
and when he was finally brought up alongside the saddle, there was all
about him to show he wasn't safe for anybody coming near. But Old Tom,
even tho it was a long time ago, had handled many mean horses;--he
knowed he was past handling 'em any more, but this time was different
and he'd do his best to carry it thru.

The two riders that'd been helping him was waved away; he'd show Clint
and the rest of the young fellers that he could still do it. He then
spread a loop and caught both of Smoky's threatening front feet; Smoky
knowed better than to fight a rope and he stood still knowing he'd soon
have another chance. Rawhide hobbles was fastened on his front legs, a
bridle put on his head, and then the saddle was reached for and put on
his back and cinched to stay.

"Better say your prayers before you climb up," says Clint, still
prodding Old Tom, at the same time hoping that he would stop before he
went too far. But there was no stopping him, he pulled up his chap'
belt, set his hat down tight, and still mad enough to bite a nail
in two, loosened the hobbles, grabbed a short holt on the reins and
climbed on.

Smoky looked back at the stranger that was a setting on him, and soon
as a touch of the rein on his neck told him that all was set, things
started a happening from there. He bowed his head, made two jumps, and
was just getting started good when he felt the saddle was empty;--he
made a few more jumps just for good measure, and then stopped.

[Illustration: Old Tom didn't even get well set that time, Smoky bowed
his head and went out from under him leaving him come down on the other
side.]

Clint was grinning from ear to ear as he walked up to Smoky and put his
hand on his neck.

"Good work, old boy," he says,--and then turning to Old Tom, who was
picking himself up: "Want to try him again?"

"You bet your doggone life I do," says that old cowboy.

"All right," answers Clint, getting peeved some more. "Go ahead and
break your fool neck, there's plenty of buffalo wallows around here we
can bury you in."

Old Tom walked over and jerked the reins out of Clint's hands and
started to get in the saddle again, but he didn't even get well in it
that time,--Smoky bowed his head and went out from under him leaving
Old Tom come down on the other side.

It was as the old man was about to try Smoky once more when Jeff Nicks
interfered, and told his boss how he'd rather not have him try that
horse any more.

"That horse bucks every time he's rode," says Jeff.

Old Tom knowed he'd come to the end of his string but that didn't ease
his feelings any, and he was looking for some way of letting some
of them feelings out before they choked him. When he spots Clint a
standing to one side and by Smoky.

"You're fired," he hollered, pointing a finger at him, "I'll get
somebody to take the buck out of that horse, and the sooner you're off
this range the better I'll like it."

Clint just grinned at Old Tom, which made him all the madder, and about
then Jeff spoke:

"I'm doing the hiring and firing on this outfit, Tom, and as long as
I'm working for you I'll keep on a doing it."

Old Tom turned on him like a wild cat. "Fine!" he hollered, "you can go
too."

The old cowman had went as far as he could, and as he walked away to
catch himself another saddle horse, he had a hunch that he'd also went
further than he should; that hunch got stronger as he went on saddling,
and as he gave the latigo a last yank, it all developed into plain
common sense that he'd sure enough went too far.

But Old Tom wasn't for giving in, not right then anyway. He got on his
horse and riding close enough so Jeff could hear, says:

"You and Clint can come to the ranch and I'll have your time ready for
you," and then to another rider,--"you handle the outfit till I send
out another foreman."

A lot of orneriness was scattered to the winds as Old Tom covered the
long fifty miles back to the ranch, and as he opened the big gate
leading in, a brand new feeling had come over him,--he was for catching
a fresh horse the next morning early and high-tail it back to the wagon
to sort of smooth things over best as he could.

He unsaddled and turned his horse loose, and was mighty surprised as
he came up to the big ranch house to find both Jeff and Clint already
there and waiting for him. Not a hint of the good resolutions he'd made
showed as he walked up to 'em, and after some kind of a "howdy," Old
Tom heard Jeff say:

"All the boys sent word in by me, that as long as you're making out my
check you'd just as well make theirs out too. I'm sorry for that," went
on Jeff, "and I tried to talk 'em out of it, but it's no use, they're
all for quitting if I go."

The old cowman never said a word as he led Jeff and Clint in the big
house. He walked to a big table in the center of the living room and
there he turned on his two riders. A smile was on his face and he says:

"Daggone it, Jeff, I'm glad to hear that." Then Old Tom, still
pleasant, but serious, went on, "for no man does his best work unless
he's doing it with somebody he likes and has confidence in. Yes," he
repeated, "I'm glad to hear that, but the question is now, you're fired
and free to go, aint you?" he asks.

"Yes," says Jeff, "soon as I get paid off."

"Well, how's chances of hiring you over again? I can't afford to let a
foreman like you go, Jeff."

Jeff seemed to figger a while and then looked at Clint, and Old Tom
guessing what was on his foreman's mind, went on "and of course, being
that I have no say in the hiring and firing of your riders, Clint
wasn't fired at all, and he can keep on riding for you."

Finally hands was shook all around, and as Jeff and Clint started back
for the wagon the next morning Old Tom was on hand to see 'em go.

"And don't worry about that daggone mouse colored horse of yours,
Clint," he says as him and Jeff rode away, "I'll never want him."

The riders reached the big gate leading out of the ranch, and there
Jeff remarked as he got off his horse to open it:

"I guess Old Tom didn't have to say that he was sorry."

And Clint more than agreed.




                               CHAPTER X

                         "AMONGST THE MISSING"


The remuda was in the big corrals of the home ranch once more, and
after a few "winter" horses was cut out, the rest was hazed towards the
winter range, and let go.--Four long winter months went by.--Then one
day the round up cook begin to get busy cleaning the chuck box, meadow
larks was a tuning up on the high corral posts, and along with the bare
patches of ground that could be seen, no better signs was needed that
spring had come.

Clint was again the first to spot Smoky that spring and notice the
amount of tallow that pony was packing, he was in fine shape for
whatever work that'd be his to do that summer, and soon as him and the
cowboy got thru with their first "howdys" they both went to work like
they never had before.

Smoky took up to where he'd left off the fall before and kept on
accumulating science in ways of handling the critter till that critter
would just roll up an eye at the sight of the mouse colored pony and
never argue as to where he wanted to put 'er;--she'd just go there.

Spring work went on, middle summer came, and sometime after, the fall
round up was in full swing again. Thousands of cattle was handled, cut
out, and culled. Big herds of fat steers was trailed in to the shipping
point and loaded in the cars, and when the weaning was done and the
old stock was all brought in close to the cow camps, Jeff headed his
wagon towards the home ranch once more. The work was over, the remuda
was turned out and the riders that was kept on the payroll saddled
their winter horses and scattered out for the outfit's different camps.

Winter came on and set in, then spring bloomed out green once again,
and with it the cowboys spread out on the range once more. Season
after season followed one another without a ruffle that way, the same
territory was covered at the same time of the year, the wagon rolled
in at the same grounds, and the rope corral stretched at the same
spot, old riders disappeared and new ones took their place, like with
the ponies; the old cowhorses was pensioned, replaced by younger ones
and the work went on, season after season, year after year, the same
outfit rambled out of the home ranch and combed the range like as if no
changes was taking place.

Jeff, the cow boss, the round up cook, Clint, and a couple more riders
was all that was left of the old hands as the wagon pulled out one
spring;--the others'd had cravings for new countries and went and
throwed their soogans on some other outfit's wagons.

Five years had went by since that day when Clint, riding Smoky, had
joined the wagon, five summers was put in when every time Smoky was
saddled and rode Clint was the cowboy that done it, not another hand
had touched Smoky's hide in that time, excepting when Old Tom had
_tried_ to appropriate the horse for his own string, and since that day
there hadn't been any excuse for Clint to worry about anybody taking
Smoky away from him. There wasn't a cowboy in the outfit who didn't
more than want the horse, and if Clint ever failed to show up when the
spring works started there'd most likely been some argument as to who
should get him; but he'd always been the first to ride in at the home
ranch at them times and none had the chance to lay claim on the horse.

In them long summers, and as Smoky was rode off and on, the little
horse had got to know Clint as well as that cowboy knowed hisself; he
knowed just when Clint was a little under the weather and not feeling
good,--at them times he'd go kinda easy with his bucking as the cowboy
topped him off. The feel of Clint's hand was plain reading to him,
and he could tell by a light touch of it whether it meant "go get
'er," "easy now," "good work," and so on. The tone of his voice was
also mighty easy to understand. He could tell a lot of things by it,
specially when he was being got after for doing something he shouldn't
of done. His eyes was wide open at them times, his neck bowed, and he'd
snort sorta low, but when Clint would tell him what a fine horse he
was, Smoky was some different,--he'd just take it all in the same as he
would warm sunshine in a cold fall day, and near close his eyes for the
peace he was feeling at the sound of the cowboy's voice.

The way Smoky could understand the man who rode him thru and around the
big herds had a lot to do in making him the cowhorse he'd turned out to
be, his strong liking for the rider had made him take interest and for
learning all about whatever he was rode out to do. There'd come a time
when Smoky knowed the second Clint had a critter spotted to be cut out,
and the pony's instinct near told him which one it was, till nary a
feel of the rein was needed and the dodging critter was stepped on and
headed for the "cut."

The same with roping and where Smoky could do near everything but throw
the rope that caught the critter. There he shined as he did anywhere
else under the saddle, he'd keep one ear back, watch out and follow the
loop leave Clint's hand and sail out to settle around a steer's horns,
and the slack was no more than pulled when that pony would turn and go
the other way,--he knowed how to "lay" the critter, and none of the big
ones ever got up, not while Smoky was at one end of the rope.

Of the many happenings that all went to show of Smoky's knowing how
in handling the critter there's one Clint and the boys liked to tell
of. It was only an average of the others that happened, but there
was something about that one which made the telling easier as to the
wonders of that horse. It was the detail that counted there.

There was a big steer in the herd with a crooked horn which had curved
and threatened to grow some more and right thru his eye. Clint and Jeff
spotted the steer at the same time, and while one of the boys went to
the wagon to get a saw to cut the horn off with, both Clint and Jeff
took their ropes down and proceeded to catch the critter.

The steer was wild, big and husky, and wise, and soon as he seen the
two riders coming thru the herd headed his way, he broke out of it and
tail up in the air begin to leave the flat. About then is when Smoky
appeared on the scene.

That little horse et up the distance between him and that steer in no
time and soon carried Clint to within reach. On account of the crooked
horn Clint had to rope the steer around the neck, and that he did neat
and quick. Everything went on as it should,--Smoky run on past the
steer and Clint throwed the slack of his rope over that same steer's
rump and in another second that critter would of been laying with toes
up to the sky and ready to tie.

The unexpected happened about that time, and when the rope tightened
the steer didn't lay at all. Instead there was a sound of something
ripping. Clint went up in the air about three feet, turned a somerset
and hit the ground, the saddle stood up on end on Smoky's back and only
the flank cinch was holding it there. The stub latigo of the front
cinch had been ripped right thru by the tongue of the cinch buckle like
it'd been paper.

Every rider around the herd seen the thing happen, and had already
figgered how it wouldn't take long for Smoky to get himself out from
under the remains of that saddle. For near every horse would go to
bucking and raising the dust when being pinched around the flanks that
way, and Smoky had seemed so inclined to want to buck that it was
thought he'd never overlook that chance.

The boys was already grinning at such a good promise of seeing a
little excitement, but the grins soon faded to looks of wonder. For
Smoky, instead of trying to get shed of the saddle, showed he was using
his brain to the best way of _keeping it there_. He was a cowhorse
and working, and it was no time for foolishness, so, when the rigging
reared up on his hind quarters that way he reared up with it, and
turned while in the air. When his front feet touched the ground again
the saddle was where it belonged and he was facing the steer.

When that story was told to the country around there was many
hard-to-be-convinced riders, who laughed and shook their heads and
remarked how it was pure luck that the pony acted that way, but if
they'd knowed Smoky, if they'd seen how he juggled that saddle and
worked to keep his holt on the steer there'd been a different tune.

The steer had stayed up and with his ten hundred pounds of wild weight
had fought at the rope and hit the end mighty hard. Then Smoky done
another thing and which kept the boys a staring and doing nothing--The
steer was making another wild dash for open country, and Smoky, instead
of holding his ground and waiting for the steer to hit the end of the
rope broke out in a sudden run and right after the critter. When the
speed of both of 'em was up good and high Smoky of a sudden planted
himself till his hocks touched the ground, and when Mr. Steer hit
the end of the rope that time it was just as tho that rope had been
fastened to a four foot stump. His head was jerked under him, he turned
in the air, and when he came down _he layed_.

"There was only one thing that horse didn't do," Jeff had remarked
afterwards,--"he didn't give the rope a flip before he set down on it."

Smoky had kept the rope tight and Clint tied the steer down to stay
till the crooked horn was sawed off. When that was done Clint put up a
hand and spoke, and Smoky gave slack so the rope could be pulled off
the steer's head.

Big herds of Mexico long-horned steers had been bought by the Rocking R
and shipped up into that northern country, they got fat on that range
and wilder than ever, and there's where Smoky showed he had something
else besides the knowing how. Them long-horned critters are too fast
for the average cowhorse to catch up with in a short distance, but not
with Smoky;--he had the speed to go with what he knowed, and Clint
would have time to whirl his rope only a few times when the little
horse would climb up on the long legged steer and pack the cowboy to
within roping distance.

Many a cowboy had remarked that it was worth the price of a good show
to watch Smoky work, whether it was around, in or out of a herd, and
many a rider had let a cow sneak past him just so he could see how neat
that pony could outdodge a critter, and when after the last meal of the
day and the cowboys stretched out to rest some, talk, or sing, none
ever had any argument to put up and no betting was ever done against
whatever Clint said Smoky could do or had done. They all knowed and
admired the horse, and came a time as these cowboys came and went that
Smoky begin to be talked about in the cow camps of other cow outfits.
One whole northern State got to hear of him, and one cowboy wasn't at
all surprised when hitting South one fall and close to the Mexican
border to hear another cowboy talk of "Smoky of the Rocking R."

[Illustration: Many a cowboy had remarked it was worth the price of a
good show to watch Smoky outdodge the critter.]

The owner of a neighbor outfit sent word by one of his "reps"[1] one
day that he'd give a hundred dollars for that horse; Smoky had been
broke only two years then. Old Tom laughed at the offer, and Clint
got peeved. The next year that offer was raised by the same party to
two hundred, and Old Tom laughed again, but Clint didn't know whether
to get mad or scared this time. Anyway, things went on as usual for a
couple of years more, and then a big outfit from acrost the state line
sent in an offer of a cool four hundred dollars for the mouse colored
cowhorse.

[Footnote 1: Riders representing other outfits.]

Good saddle horses could be bought by the carload for fifty dollars
a head about that time, but there never was no set price on a good
cowhorse, and as a rule that kind can't be bought unless an outfit is
selling out. The biggest price that was ever heard offered in that
country for any cowhorse had never went over two hundred, and when
rumors spread around that four hundred had been offered for Smoky many
figgered that whoever offered it had a lot of money to spend;--but them
who figgered that way had never seen Smoky work.

Ole Tom came up to Clint that fall after the wagon had pulled in and
showed him the letter offering the four hundred. Clint had heard about
the offer and he just stargazed at the letter, not reading;--instead
he was doing some tall wondering at what Old Tom was going to do about
it. He was still stargazing and sort of waiting for the blow to fall,
when he felt the old cowman's hand on his shoulder, and then heard him
say:

"Well, Clint, I'll tell you"--then Old Tom waited a while, maybe just
to sort of aggravate the cowboy, but finally he went on,--"if my cattle
was starving, and I needed the money to buy feed to pull 'em thru with,
I might _sacrifice_ Smoky for four hundred, but as things are now
there's no money can buy that horse."

The cowboy smiled, took a long breath, and grabbed the paw the old man
was holding for him to shake.

"But I'm hoping," resumed Old Tom, "that some day soon you'll get to
hankering to drift to some other country and quit this outfit, so I can
get Smoky for myself; I'd fired you long ago, only I'd have to fire
Jeff too, and somehow I'd rather get along without the horse till one
of you highbinders quit."

Clint had kept a smiling all the while the old man was speaking, then
he gave his hand another shake and walked away. He knowed Old Tom had
said that last just to hear how his voice sounded.

       *       *       *       *       *

As usual, Smoky was turned out on the range along with the remuda for
that winter. Clint had helped haze 'em to the breaks as he'd always
done, and noticed as he stopped and let the ponies graze and scatter
that the feed was mighty short and scarcer than he'd ever seen it. The
whole summer had been mighty dry and the range short on grass, but
this little scope of country that was the saddle horse range had always
been good, and the ponies had always wintered there better than if
they'd been in a warm stable and fed grain.

Clint thought some of taking Smoky back with him and keeping him up for
a winter horse, but then he'd have to turn him out when spring works
came on, and the cowboy didn't want to think of going out on spring
round up without his "top horse."

"No," he decided, "I'm going to let you run out this winter, but I'll
be out to see how you're making it and don't loose too much tallow.
You're getting to be too valuable a horse to take any chances of
losing," he says to him as he scratched him back of the ear--"but," he
went on, "you're not half as valuable to the outfit as you are to me,
old pony, even tho Old Tom wont consider no price on you."

Clint was on his way back and had no more than got sight of the
buildings of the ranch when Old White Winter hit him from behind and
made him clap his gloved hands over his ears.

"Holy smoke," he whistled thru his chattering teeth, "she's sure
starting ferocious."

And she had,--the first initiating blizzard of the season was more than
just a snowstorm with a wind, it was a full grown blizzard drifting
over the country, covering up the feed with packed snow, and freezing
things up. It kept up for two days and nights, and as it cleared up,
the thermometer went down. The next day Clint was busy bringing in
old stock closer to the ranch and where they could be watched, and
as another blizzard hit the country again a few days later that
cowboy was _kept_ on the jump bringing under the sheds and next to the
haystacks all the stock he'd hunted up.

[Illustration: The next day Clint was busy bringing the weak stock
closer to the ranch.]

Clint was in the saddle all day every day, and sometimes away into
the night. A month went by and in that time two feet of snow had
accumulated on the range;--more was threatening to come, and all the
cowboys that was kept on the Rocking R payroll more than had their
hands full. The ranch hands would roll up their eyes at every bunch
of stock the riders brought in to be fed, for as they figgered they
already had all they could handle, and if this kept up, Old Tom would
have to hire more hay shovelers and buy more hay.

Clint had worried some about Smoky and figgered to hunt him up
sometime, but as on account of the deep snow he couldn't get his horse
out of a walk he never could make it. Besides there was always a bunch
of cattle somewheres on the way, and amongst 'em there'd be a few that
needed bringing in.

But with all them drawbacks, Clint finally reached Smoky's range late
one day. The gray sky was getting darker, and night was coming on as
the cowboy topped a ridge and spotted a bunch of ponies, amongst the
bunch was a long-haired, shaggy-looking, and lean mouse-colored horse,
and Clint could hardly believe his eyes or keep from choking as he rode
closer and recognized his Smoky horse.

The cowboy was for catching the horse right there and bring him in to
the ranch. He wondered if Smoky could travel that far, but as the horse
raised his head out of the hole in the snow where he'd been pawing for
feed, and spotted the rider coming towards him, Clint was surprised to
see so much strength and action. Smoky hadn't recognized the cowboy,
and before he'd took a second look, he'd hightailed it from there in a
hurry.

Clint watched him and smiled as he seen that the horse wasn't in near
as bad a shape as he'd first thought.

"But I'm going to take you in just the same, you little son of a gun,
for God knows what you'll be like in a few weeks from now if this
weather keeps up."

He started on the trail Smoky and the other ponies had left, it was
good and dark by then, but the trail in the deep snow was easy enough
to follow. He wondered as he rode if he could get Smoky to stand long
enough so as the horse would recognize him under all the disguise
of his winter clothes, for at night specially he looked more like a
bear than anything; then again, horses are spookier and harder to get
near at that time, Clint had his doubts if he could catch him, and he
figgered he'd most likely have to take the whole bunch along in order
to get him to the ranch.

He was riding along on the trail and trying to get sight of the ponies,
when to his left just a little ways, and out of the snow came a faint
beller; it sounded like a critter in trouble, and Clint stopped his
horse, the beller came again, and he rode towards the sound.--All
curled up, shivering, and near covered with snow, a little bitty calf
was found,--couldn't been over two days old, figgered the cowboy, and
he wondered how the poor little cuss could still be alive.

"Where's your mammy, Johnny?" says Clint as he got off his horse and
came near the calf.

But the words was no more out of his mouth when a dark shadow appeared,
and bellering, tried to get to the cowboy with her horns before he
could get on his horse. In making his getaway, Clint noticed tracks of
more cattle, and following 'em a ways, come acrost another cow and with
another calf, only this second calf was older and more able to navigate.

"These two wall-eyed heifers must of been missed during last fall's
round up," Clint figgered, "and just as luck would have it they both
have winter calves. Well, Smoky," he says as he looked the direction
the ponies had went, "I guess that leaves you out, _this time_."

It was near noon the next day when Clint showed up at the ranch packing
a little calf on the front of his saddle. He found Jeff by the big
sheds where the cattle was sheltered and fed, and told him:

"I had to leave this little feller's mammy out about ten miles. There's
another cow and young calf with 'er, and maybe you better send a man
out after 'em before this storm that's coming catches up with 'em. Me,
I'm going to eat the whole hind leg off a beef and roll in between my
soogans."

The storm Clint had spoke of came sure enough, and seemed like to want
to clean the earth of all that drawed a breath, the snow piled up and
up till, as the cowboy remarked, "the fence posts around the ranch are
only sticking up about an inch, and soon wont be visible no more."

That storm would of meant the death of all the cattle that was on the
range, and most of the horses too, but as the tail of it came, a high
wind sprung up, the snow drifted and piled high in the coulees, and at
the same time took the depth of it down considerable wherever that wind
hit. When it all finally quit raging, there was many patches where the
grass was buried only by a few inches, and them patches the wind had
cleared was what saved the lives of the range stock that winter.

Clint had worried about Smoky as the stormy weather came on; he'd
tried time and time again to get to him, but always some helpless
critter made him branch off and finally turn back. "To morrow," Clint
kept a saying, but the "To morrows" came and went and the cowboy always
a fretting hadn't got near Smoky's range.

The great liking Clint had for the mouse colored horse made him fret
and worry more than was necessary. That liking made him imagine a lot
that was nowheres near true, and many a time that cowboy rolled in his
bunk, tired, and wore out, and dreamed of seeing Smoky caught in a snow
bank, weak, starving, and wolves drawing near.

Smoky had sure enough lost considerable fat, and his strength was
reduced some too, but he was nowheres weak;--that is, not so weak that
he couldn't get up easy once he layed down, or be able to travel and
rustle for his feed. The last big storm had took him down some more,
but he was still able to plow thru the snow banks that'd gathered on
the sides of the ridges and get on the other side where the feed was
easier reached.

If it didn't snow too much more there was no danger for Smoky and the
bunch he was with. Him and Pecos had got to know that range so well,
they knowed where the best of shelter could be found when the winds was
cold or the blizzard howled, and then again, they knowed of many ridges
and where the snow was always the thinnest. They had a spot to fit in
with or against whatever the weather had to hand out, and whether the
next on the program was to be sunshine or more snow they was still
well able to enjoy or compete with either.

       *       *       *       *       *

Weeks had passed since Smoky had raised his head out of the hollow
in the snow and spotted the rider, who'd been Clint coming onto him,
and then one day, here comes another rider. Smoky had been the first
to spot that other rider, and as was natural, him and the rest of the
bunch made tracks away from there and till the rider couldn't be seen
no more.

A mile or so on the bunch went to pawing snow and grazing again, night
was coming on, a wind was raising, and pretty soon light flakes of
snow begin to come. Then, when night was well on, and as the wind got
stronger and the snow heavier, the rider showed up again, right in the
middle of the bunch this time and before Smoky or any of the others
could see him.--The ponies scattered like a bunch of quail at the sight
of him and so close, but they soon got together again, and on a high
lope went along with the storm.

The rider followed on after 'em, and as mile after mile of snow covered
country was left behind the ponies realized there was no dodging _him_.
Heavy drifts was lunged into and hit on a high run as they tried to
leave him behind, and then as they'd cross creek bottoms a mile or so
wide, and where the snow was from two to three feet deep, the run begin
to tell on 'em. They finally slowed down to a trot, and as the rider
wasn't pressing 'em any, there came a time when going at a walk seemed
plenty fast. They was getting tired.

[Illustration: Heavy drifts was lunged into and hit on a high run as
they tried to leave the rider behind.]

The night wore on with 'em a traveling that way, the heavy wind pushed
'em on and their long hair was matted with snow, but tired, and hard as
the deep snow was to buck thru, it all seemed better to drift on that
way than stand still in such as the storm had turned out to be. They
drifted on, not minding the rider much no more.--Then after a while it
begin to get light, slow and gradual, the new day come, and the rider,
finding a thick patch of willows let the ponies drift in the shelter.
He tried to look on the back trail as he let 'em drift, and he grinned
as the thick stinging snow blurred his view.

"That old blizzard will sure do the work of covering up my trail," he
remarked as he looked for a sheltered spot amongst the willows.

He soon found the sheltered spot and where the wind was more heard
than felt, and getting off his tired horse begin tamping himself a
place where he could move around a little and not have the snow up to
his waist. He tied his horse up where he'd be within easy reach, and
soon had a fire started out of dead willow twigs. Rice and "jerky" was
cooked in a small lard bucket, and et out of the same. When that was
gone, a few handfuls of snow was melted in the same bucket and coffee
was made. Then a cigarette was rolled, a few puffs drawed out of it,
and the man, curled up by the fire, was soon asleep.

All of him, from the toe of his gunny sack covered boots to the dark
face which showed under the wore out black hat, pointed out as the
man being a halfbreed of Mexican and other blood that's darker, and
noticing the cheap, wore out saddle, the ragged saddle-blanket on a
horse that should of had some chance to feed instead of being tied up,
showed that he was a halfbreed from the _bad_ side, not caring, and
with no pride.

He slept, feeling sure that no rider would be on his trail in this kind
of weather, for the trail he'd made was wiped out and covered over near
as soon as he made it, and as for the horses he'd stole, he knowed they
wouldn't be facing this storm and trying to go back; they'd be more for
staying in shelter instead and try to find something to eat.

Seventeen head of Rocking R saddle stock, counting Smoky, was half a
mile or so further down the creek bottom from where the halfbreed was
sleeping. They hugged the thick willows for the shelter they'd give,
and feed off the small green branches, the rye grass, and everything
they could reach which they could chew on. Smoky and Pecos, side by
side, rustled on thru the deep snow, sometimes ahead and sometimes
behind the other horses, all a nosing around or pawing for whatever
little feed could be found, but many cattle had been there ahead of
'em, and when darkness came on they showed near as drawed as they'd
been that morning.

The snowing had let up some during the day, but as night drawed near
the wind got stronger, the snow was drifting, and there'd be another
night of travel when no trail would be left to show.

The breed woke up, looked around and grinned, then got up and shook
himself. The fire was started again, another bait was cooked and
consumed, and after all was gathered, he mounted his horse and went to
looking for the ponies he'd left to graze down the creek bottom. He run
onto 'em a couple of miles further and where he'd figgered they'd be,
and as dark settled over the snow covered range, he fell in behind 'em
and started 'em on the way.

An hour or so of traveling, and then Smoky, who was in the lead, found
himself between the wings of a corral, a corral that was made of
willows and well hid. The breed had built it for _his purpose_, and
signs showed that it'd been used many a time before. Long willow poles
made the gate, and after he run the ponies in, and put up the poles, he
went after his rope on his saddle.

Many a brand had been changed in that corral, and on both horse and
cow, other times he'd used it just to change horses, and that's what he
wanted just now, a fresh horse. He wasn't changing for the sake of the
tired horse he'd been riding, it was just that he didn't want to take
chances of having a tired horse under him in case somebody jumped him.

His loop was made, and thru the dark he was trying to see just what
horse to put his rope on, the white background helped him considerable
in making out the shapes of the ponies, and there was one shape he
was looking out for before he let his loop sail, the shape of a mouse
colored blazed faced horse which he'd noticed and watched all along.
Pretty soon, and furthest away from him, he got a glimpse of Smoky's
head,--he recognized the white streak on his forehead, and his rope
sailed.

Smoky snorted and ducked, the rope just grazed his ears and went on
to settle over another horse's head. In the dark, the breed couldn't
follow his rope, and he didn't know but what he'd caught Smoky till he
pulled on the rope and brought the horse to him. He cussed considerable
as he seen he'd caught another horse than the one he wanted, but as he
noticed that this horse was good size and strong looking, he let it go
at that, and didn't take time to make another try for Smoky.

"I'll get you next time, you----" he says as he looked Smoky's way and
saddled the horse he'd caught.

Letting the poles down the breed mounted the fresh horse, let the
ponies out, and turned 'em out of the creek bottom onto a long bench.
The strong winds had blowed most all the snow off there, and excepting
for a few low places where it had piled deep, traveling was made easy.
He kept the ponies on a trot most of the night, and sometimes where the
snow wasn't too deep he'd crowd 'em into a lope.

       *       *       *       *       *

Steady, the gait was kept up, and finally, after the breed seen that
the ponies was too tired and weak to travel much more, he begin to look
for a place where he could hide 'em and where they could rustle feed
during the day that was soon to come. On the other end of the ridge
he was following, he knowed of a place, and taking down his rope, he
snapped it at the tired ponies and kept 'em on the move till that place
was reached. There, another stop was made.

The storm had dwindled down and wore out till nothing was left but the
high wind, it kept the snow drifting, which would keep on covering
tracks and make traveling easier. But the breed didn't need the storm
to help him no more, for, as he figgered, the country ahead and where
he was headed was all open, he expected no riders would be found on
the way at that time of the year, and as he'd been on that route many
a time before with stolen stock, he knowed just how far it was between
each good hiding and stopping place, both for himself and stock.

There was corrals on the way, some built by him, and others built by
more of his kind. Sometimes he would change the iron on the ponies
he'd just stole, but as the hair was too long for anybody to be able
to read the brand that was on 'em, that could wait a while till he got
further away and he could travel in daytime more.

He was pleased with everything in general as he left the ponies and
started hunting a shelter for himself, he grinned, satisfied, as he
melted snow for his coffee and figgered on the price the ponies would
bring. He knowed good horses, and even tho they was in poor shape now
he knowed what they'd turn out to be after a month's time on green
grass.

And then there was "Smoky," that mouse colored horse;--he'd heard how
four hundred dollars had been offered for that pony, and allowed that
some other cowman to the south would be glad to give at least half that
price for him, once it was showed what a cowhorse he really was.

A few hundred miles to the south was the breed's hangout, a place in
a low country and where the snow hardly stayed. Once there he could
take it easy, let the ponies fatten up, and after the brand was well
"blotched" so nobody would recognize the original, he'd sell 'em one at
a time for a good price or ship 'em out to some horse dealer. In the
meantime he had nothing to worry about, the storm had took his trail
off the face of the earth, there was a good seventy miles between him
and where he'd started with the horses, and near a hundred miles to the
Rocking R home ranch.




                              CHAPTER XI

                     "THE FEEL OF A STRANGE HAND"


A long month had passed since Clint had rode out to get Smoky and came
back with a calf instead. Every day since, that cowboy had been for
going after Smoky again, but the deep snow and storms had more than
kept him breaking trails for snowbound cattle that was weak and needed
bringing in, he couldn't find no time and hadn't been able to frame no
excuse so as he could hit out for Smoky's range. Then one morning he
got up with a hunch. He tried to keep it down, but every morning it got
stronger till finally Clint just had to saddle up the best horse he had
and hit out for where Smoky had been wintering.

The last big storm had let up a few days before, and many fresh tracks
covered the horse range, Clint trailed and trailed, he found and went
thru many bunches of ponies, but no Smoky. Even the bunch that pony
was running with when last seen had seemed to evaporate into thin air,
and there Clint wondered. He wondered if somebody'd stole him and the
bunch, but he put that off, figgering that no horse thief would steal
horses packing as well known a brand as the Rocking R, unless he was a
daggone fool, or a daggone good one. Anyway, as worried as Clint was,
he felt some relieved in not finding the bunch Smoky had been with, for
if he'd found them and no Smoky that'd been proof enough that the pony
had went and died somewheres. The other ponies he'd seen that day still
looked good and strong, and that was proof enough that Smoky must be
the same.

"Most likely him and his bunch just drifted with that last storm and
went back to their home range," Clint thought, as he headed his horse
back for the ranch, but the hunch that was still with him didn't seem
to agree with that thought none at all.

Two weeks later found the cowboy on the horse range once more, and
making a bigger circle, but Smoky and his bunch still kept being
amongst the missing. He told Old Tom about it as he got back to the
ranch that night, but the old man didn't seem worried; he waved a hand
as Clint said how he'd finally got to believe that the whole bunch had
been stole.

"Don't worry," he says, "we'll find him and all the rest during horse
round up."

Finally, spring broke up, the deep drifts started to melting and the
creeks begin to raise, then after a while, and when the "hospital
stuff"[2] had been turned out on the range a couple of weeks, riders
begin stringing out towards the horse range and gathering the remuda.
Clint lined out by himself and hit for the country where Smoky had
been raised. He reached the camp where he'd started breaking him, and
from there he rode, every morning with a fresh horse and running down
every bunch of stock horses a hoping to get sight of the mouse colored
gelding.

[Footnote 2: The old cattle which'd been kept and fed under the sheds
thru the winter.]

He rode for a week and seen every horse that was on that range, strays
and all, and finally after he'd combed the whole country where Smoky
had run as a colt, he rode back to the ranch, feeling disappointed but
a hoping that the other riders had found him.

The remuda was in the big corrals, when he got there, all of it,
excepting for the seventeen head which couldn't be found nowheres.
Smoky was one of the seventeen.

There was a few more days riding, and then of a sudden Old Tom decided
Clint had been right, the horses was sure enough stolen--. His big car
hit only the high spots as the old man headed for town,--jack rabbits
was passed by and left behind the same as if they'd been tied, and when
he hit the main street he was doing seventy. He put on his brakes and
passed the sheriff's office by half a block, but he left his car there,
and hoofed on a high run all the way back.

That official was notified of the theft, and notified to notify other
officials of the State and other States around, and Old Tom stuck close
to see that that was done and mighty quick. A thousand dollars reward
was offered for the thief, and the same reward for the return of the
horses, naming one mouse colored saddle horse as special.

The spring round up went by, summer, and then the fall round up and the
close of the season's work. Nothing of Smoky, nor any of the ponies
he'd run with or the horse thief was heard of; it seemed like one and
all had left the earth for good, and if what all Old Tom often wished
on the thief could of come thru, that hombre would of sure found
himself in a mighty hot place.

Clint rode on for the Rocking R thru that summer and fall, and always
as he rode, he kept an eye on the country around and hoping that
sometimes he'd run acrost his _one_ horse, Smoky. He didn't want to
think that the horse had been stolen, and he kept a saying to himself
as he rode: "he's just strayed away somewheres."--There wasn't a draw,
coulee, or creek bottom passed by without the whole of it was looked
into, and never before was the Rocking R country looked into so well.
Every rider, on down to the wrangler, kept his eyes peeled for the
mouse colored horse, and even tho _cattle_ is what the wagons was out
for, there was more eyes out for Smoky, and cattle was only brought in
as second best.

[Illustration: And even tho cattle is what the round up wagons was out
for, there was more eyes out for Smoky, and cattle was only brought in
as second best.]

It wasn't till fall round up was near over that Clint begin losing all
hope of ever seeing Smoky again in _that_ country, and as them hopes
left him, there came a hankering for him to move. Maybe it was just
to be moving and riding on some other range for a change, but back of
it all, and if Clint had stopped to figger some, he'd found that his
hankering to move wasn't only for seeing new territory,--there was a
faint hope away deep, that some day, somewheres, he'd find Smoky.

For that pony had got tangled up in the cowboy's heartstrings a heap
more than that cowboy wanted to let on, even to himself. He couldn't
get away from _how_ he missed him. He'd thought of him when on day herd
and how the horse had seemed to understand every word he'd said. On the
cutting grounds, he'd kept a comparing whatever horse he'd be riding
with Smoky, and find that pony (no matter how good he was) a mighty
poor excuse of a cowhorse alongside of the mouse colored pony that was
missing.

[Illustration: Clint'd keep on comparing whatever horse he'd be riding
with Smoky, and find that pony (no matter how good he was) a mighty
poor excuse as compared with the mouse colored horse that was missing.]

But all them good points of Smoky's was nothing as compared to the rest
of what that horse really had been _as a horse_, and there's where
Smoky had got under Clint's hide, as a horse, one in a thousand.

The last of the wagons had trailed into the home ranch, and the next
day, the remuda was hazed out to the winter range.--Clint wasn't along
that fall to see the ponies turned loose. Instead he was in the big
bunk house at the home ranch, and busy stuffing his saddle into a gunny
sack. A railroad map was spread on the floor and which the cowboy had
been studying.

Jeff opened the door of the bunk house and took in at a glance what all
Clint was up to;--he noticed the railroad map laying by his foot and
smiled.

"I figgered you would," he says, "now that Smoky is not with the outfit
no more."

The first of winter had come and hit the high mountains of the southern
country. Big, dark clouds had drifted in, drenched the ranges down
to bedrock with a cold rain, and hung on for days. Then the rain had
gradually turned to a wet snow, kept a falling steady, and without a
break, till it seemed like the country itself was shivering under the
spell.

Finally, and after many long days, the dark clouds begin to get lighter
and lighter and started lifting and drifting on--then one evening, the
sun got a chance to peek thru and smile at the country again. It went
down a smiling that way and after it disappeared over the blue ridge a
new moon took its place for a spell, and like as to promise that the
sun would smile again the next day.

And it did, it came up bright and real fitting to that Arizona country.
The air was clear as spring water in a granite pool, and as still.
The whole world seemed dozing and just contented to take on all the
warmth and life the sun was giving. A mountain lion was stretched out
on a boulder, warm and comfortable, where the day before he'd been in
his den all curled up and shivering, then a few deer come out of their
shelter, hair on end and still wet thru, but as they reached the sunny
side of the mountain it wasn't long when it dried again, and layed
smooth.

Further down the mountain and more on the foothills, a little chipmunk
stuck his head out of his winter quarters and blinked at the sun. He
blinked at it for quite a spell like not believing, and pretty soon
came out to make sure. He stood up, rolled in the warm dirt, and in
more ways than one made up for the long days he'd holed away. Other
chipmunks came out, and then he went visiting, more seeds was gathered
as he went from bush to bush and even tho he already had a mighty
big supply already stored away, he worked on as tho he was afraid of
running short long before spring come.

He was at his busiest, and tearing a pine cone apart for the nuts he'd
find inside, when he hears something a tearing thru the brush and
coming his way. Away he went and hightailed it towards his hole, and
he'd no more than got there when he gets a glimpse of what looked like
a mountain of a horse and running for all he was worth.--A long rope
was dragging from his neck.

The chipmunk went down as far in his hole as he could, stood still and
listened a minute, and then storing away the nuts he'd gathered, stuck
his head out once more. He chirped considerable as he looked around to
see if any more out of the ordinary or dangerous looking was in sight,
and he'd just had time to blink at the scenery a couple of times, when
he gets a glimpse of another horse,--this one was packing a man, and at
the same speed went right on the trail the other had left.

The chipmunk never wondered what this running was all about, he just
chirped and ducked out of sight, but it wasn't long when he stuck his
head out again and gradually showed all of himself. He stood up on a
rock close to his hole, and looking around from there, he could see two
objects out towards the flat, moving fast, and seeming like one trying
to catch up with the other. He watched 'em, till a raise finally took
'em out of sight, then he watched some more and in other directions and
seeing nothing that'd need watching, he went to visiting again and to
gathering more nuts.

Out on the flat, and on the other side of the raise the two objects
went on. How glad that one object in the lead would of been to've
changed places with the chipmunk and like him been able to crawl down a
hole and hide for a spell. For hours and hours thru the night he'd been
trailed, his hoofs had sunk deep into the mud every step he'd took, but
acrost foothills and dobe flats he'd went on, always the human close
behind.

Twice that human'd disappeared and he'd took hope, but soon he'd show
up again, and mounted on a fresh horse would chase him some more. A
rope had settled around his neck once,--he'd fought till it broke, and
run on a dragging it.

[Illustration: A rope had settled around his neck once, he'd fought
till it broke,--and run on a dragging it.]

He was getting tired, mighty tired, and beginning to feel with each
step he took that the country was in cahoots with the man and trying
to hold him back. His feet went ankle deep in the soft, rain-soaked
ground, and pulling out and placing 'em ahead steady, on and on, was
getting to be more and more of an effort.

Once again the man disappeared, only to show up mounted on another
fresh horse, the man's relay string had been well placed and as the
horse he'd been chasing was getting tired and easier right along to
turn the way he wanted him, he could near see how the end of the chase
was going to be.

The sun was getting well up in the sky when skirting along the
foothills and going thru a thick bunch of cedars, the tired horse
noticed dead cedars piled up in a way that made a fence. Any other
time he'd whirled at the sight and went some other way, but his vision
wasn't very clear no more, nor was his brain working very good. He'd
went on his nerves and kept on long after his muscles had hollered
"quit," and he'd got to the point where he was running because
something away back in his mind kept a telling him that he should,
really not knowing why. He was past caring where he went, and even if
the rider behind had stopped and quit, he'd kept on running just the
same and till he'd dropped.

He followed the cedar fence hardly realizing it was there. Then from
the other side of him appeared another fence, it gradually pinched in
on him as he went, till finally both fences led up to a gate and into a
corral hid in the thick trees. There he stopped, realizing somehow that
he couldn't go no further, and legs wide apart, breathing hard, sweat
a dripping from every part of him, he stood still.

The halfbreed closed the pole gate, and turned looking at the horse.

"Now, you ornery mouse colored hunk of meanness, I guess I got you."

But Smoky, eyes half closed and not seeing, head near touching the
ground, and the rest of him trying hard to stay up, never seemed to
hear.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many months had passed and many things happened since Smoky had been
hazed away from his home range on the Rocking R. There'd been long
nights of traveling when many miles was covered and very little feed
was got on the way. Then long, weary miles of travel had accumulated
till near a thousand of 'em separated him from the country where he'd
been born and raised.

Many strange looking hills and flats he'd crossed as he was kept on
the go with Pecos and the rest of the bunch, and when he'd come to the
desert it'd been a great relief,--the deep snow had gradually been
left behind by then and the bare sagebrush flats had took the place of
the snow covered prairie. Many bunches of wild ponies had been seen on
the way and once in a while a little bunch of cattle was passed by.
The country had kept a changing, from rolling prairie it went to low
hills, low hills to mountains, and on the other side more low hills and
then sagebrush, the sagebrush had stayed in the landscape from then on
and only added some yuccas as the southern country was reached, then
spanish dagger, barrel cactus, and cat-claw.

Finally a wide river in a deep canyon of many colors had been reached
and swimmed acrost. A few days more travel, and then it seemed like
Smoky and the bunch had got _there_,--anyway there'd been no more
traveling. The next day, the half breed had corralled all the ponies,
and with a running iron, blotched the Rocking R brand over with what
looked like a wagon wheel. The original brand was disfigured complete,
and then the horses was shoved up on a high knoll while the new brand
healed. The knoll was a high flat mesa, with rimrocks all around and
where it could be got up on only in one place, that place had then been
closed with a rope and a blanket stretched over it. There was good feed
up there, and enough snow and rain water in a natural reservoir to last
many days.

All would of been well for Smoky, and the long trip with the bucking
of snow, hard traveling, and all with the changes of the country would
of been took in as it come, but along with that trip, there'd growed
something between that pony's ears which had got to chafe. It was a
hate, a hate with poison and all for the breed that'd kept him and the
others on the move.

Smoky was born with a natural fear and hate of the human, he'd carried
it always, excepting when Clint, _that one man_, was around, but hating
humans had never bothered him, not till the dark face of the breed had
showed itself over the skyline.

With him in sight, that hate had got to grow till murder showed in his
eye, and the little fear that was still with him, was all that'd kept
him from doing damage to the dark complected human that'd trailed along
behind all the way. He'd boiled over to himself, stayed in the lead,
and far away from the breed as he could.

The breed had throwed a rope at him one day, and missed. Smoky had
never been missed that way before, and from that once he'd learned
that by ducking at the right time there was such a thing as dodging a
rope. The next day the breed had throwed his rope at him again, and
Smoky watching, had ducked at the right time and once more the loop had
missed. The breed begin cussing as he spread another loop and tried to
place it around Smoky's neck, but his cussing didn't do him any good,
and the loop had fell short a foot from the dodging pony's head.

Smoky would of enjoyed all that, if he hadn't meant it so much, and
what's more the breed had got ferocious, which all made things more
serious for the horse. He'd hated the sound of that breed's voice as
that hombre, fighting his head, and cussing for all he was worth, had
coiled up his rope once more and made ready for another try.

And in that third throw the breed had fooled Smoky. He'd swung his rope
like as to throw it, but the loop had never left his hands. Smoky had
dodged and dodged thinking sure that the rope had come, but it never
had, and finally when he'd quit dodging, it did come, and with the
speed of a "blue racer" had circled around his neck.

Smoky had fought like a trapped grizzly as the rope had drawed up, and
the breed had to take a few turns around a corral post to hold him.

"I'll fix you now, you----"

Cussing a blue streak, the breed had broke a limb off the willows that
hung over the corral, and coming towards Smoky had been for showing
that horse who was boss. He'd went to work, and tried to break the limb
over the fighting pony's head. Orneriness had stuck up in the breed's
gizzard, and anything would be done, even killing the horse right there
would of been hunkydory so long as he could ease his feelings some.

He'd pounded and pounded till the limb begin to break, and as he'd
noticed it give that way he was going to keep on till it did break, but
there again, luck had been against him. The rope that'd held Smoky went
and separated at the honda and set the horse free.

The breed had raved on some more at seeing his victim getting away, and
throwed the club after him as the pony staggered back amongst the other
ponies, and then somehow realizing that then was no time to fool with
ornery horses, the breed had caught another horse.

"I'll tend to you some more," he hollered at Smoky, and getting on the
other horse he'd let the bunch out and started 'em on the trail.

Two hundred miles of that trail was covered, and in the time it took to
cover that distance, Smoky had fed on hate for the breed till that hate
growed to a disease. Killing the breed would be all that could cure
it. Every blow that human had pounded on his head that day, a couple
of weeks past, had left a scar, a scar that healed on the surface, but
which went to his heart instead, spread there, and stayed raw.

Then one day, on the edge of a big desert flat and amongst the junipers
the breed spotted a high, strong, corral. A log cabin with smoke coming
out of the chimney was off to one side a ways, and standing in the
door was a man, the first man the breed had seen since starting out
with the stolen horses. But he felt safe, five hundred miles had been
covered, the brands on the horses had all been "picked"[3] and besides,
as he figgered, it'd be a good place to stop a while and recuperate;
and as he seen the place was a cow camp, he thought maybe he could get
the cowboy to help him some with that mouse colored horse he was still
wanting to "tend" to and packing a grudge against.

[Footnote 3: Changed for a time by just cutting the hair.]

The cowboy wasn't much for the breed the minute that hombre rode up,
but as company was scarce, he kinda stood him, and even agreed to help
him with the horse.

Smoky watched the two walk in the corral the next day, and knowed
something was up. His ears layed back at the sight of the breed and
hate showed from every part of him;--he was ready to fight, and if
anything he was glad of the chance.

But Smoky had no chance, too many ropes settled on him at once, and the
first thing he knowed, he was flat on his side and tied down before he
could use either hoof or teeth.

The horse was no more than down and helpless, when the breed, seeing
his victim within reach and where he couldn't get away, begin to get
rid of what'd been on his chest for so long, and when Smoky even tho
tied down, reached over and near pulled the shirt off of him with his
teeth, was when the breed figgered he had an excuse to beat that horse
to a pulp even tho the horse had no chance.

The cowboy, not understanding the breed's tactics for a spell, stood
off a ways, and watched. There was all about the horse to show that
he'd been right in his first dislike for the dark faced hombre. At
first he was for interfering and shove the club the breed was using
right down his throat. Then as he noticed how the pony would like to do
the damaging instead, he thought of a better way and walked up.

"Listen, feller," he says to the breed, "what's the use of beating a
horse up that way. Why don't you give him a chance and try to do it
_while you're setting on him_?"

"Maybe you think I can't do it," says that hombre, bleary-eyed and mad
clear thru.

The scheme had worked fine--the cowboy grinned to himself as he helped
the breed put the saddle on Smoky. Once he'd got a little too close to
that pony's head while helping that way, and that horse come within
an inch of getting his arm, the cowboy overlooked it, and to himself
remarked: "the poor devil had sure got a reason to be mean, and I guess
he's at the point where he figgers no human is his friend any more."

The cowboy was right, anything on two legs, whether it was the breed
or any other human, had sure enough got to be Smoky's enemy,--a
crethure to scatter into dust and put out of the way whenever a chance
showed up.

The saddle was cinched on, and while the breed was getting as much of
the seat under him as he could, the cowboy took off the foot ropes,
and soon as the last coil was pulled away, he made long steps for the
highest part of the corral and where he could watch everything to _his
heart's content_.

[Illustration: And while the breed was getting as much of the saddle
under him as he could, the cowboy took off the foot ropes.]

The cowboy had no more than reached the top pole of the corral when a
sudden commotion, which sounded like a landslide, made him turn. Smoky
had come up, and at last given a chance had more than started to make
use of it. It was his turn to do some pounding, and he done it with the
saddle that was on his back and which went with every crooked and hard
hitting jump he made.

The breed had rode many hard horses and he was a good rider, but he
soon found that Smoky was a harder horse to set than any he'd ever rode
before, and as good a rider as he was there was many a twist brought in
that he couldn't keep track of,--they kept a coming too fast, and it
wasn't long when he begin to feel that setting in that saddle on such
a horse was no place for him. The saddle horn and cantle was taking
turns and hitting him from all sides, till he didn't know which way
he was setting. Pretty soon he lost both stirrups, and once as he was
a hanging over to one side, one of them stirrups came up and hit him
between the eyes. That finished him--, he hit the ground like a ton of
lead.

The cowboy up on top of the corral had laughed and enjoyed the
performance all the way thru, and when the breed dug his nose in the
dust of the corral he laughed all the more, he'd never been more
agreeable to seeing a man get "busted" in his life.

The breed layed in a heap, never moving, and then the cowboy, finally
getting serious, was for getting him out of there before the horse
spotted him, and reduced him into thin air. Somehow, he wasn't caring
to see a human get tore apart and right before his eyes that way even
if that human did deserve killing, but Smoky's interest was all for
shedding the saddle right then and all that carried the breed's smell;
finally _it_ begin to slip;--higher and higher on his withers it went
till the high point was reached, and then it started going down. When
it reached the ground the hackamore had come off with it, and before
Smoky, slick and clean, straightened up again, the breed had picked
himself up, and without the help of the cowboy, sneaked out of the
corral.

[Illustration: Smoky's interest was all for shedding the saddle right
then and all that carried the breed's smell.]

The next few minutes was used by that cowboy in telling the breed to
get another horse saddled and hit the trail while the hitting was
good, and helping him getting his horses together, boosted him out of
camp.--But the breed wasn't thru with Smoky, he was going to "tend to
him" again, some other time.

Months had went by before that other time come, and it'd been away
late in the next fall before that hombre ever put his hands on Smoky
again. In that time, the other ponies, which all had seemed inclined to
behave, had been sold. Smoky had been kept in the corral, treated with
a club regular, and fed "post hay," till, as the breed figgered, he'd
break that pony's spirit, or break his neck, but he was going to _make_
him behave some way, so as he'd get the price he'd be asking for him.

Then one night a high March wind had sprung up, rattled the corral
gate, and finally worked it open. Smoky hadn't been long in seeing the
opening, and when a few days later the breed, hunting for the horse,
spotted him, the mouse colored gelding had took up with the wild bunch,
and only a glimpse of him did he get.

Every once in a while that whole summer the breed had tried cutting
Smoky out of the wild bunch and run him in, but that pony had been
harder to get near than any of the wild ones he was with. He knowed
what was on the program for him if that breed ever caught him
again,--the steady beatings he'd got from him had made his hate grow
for the human till a striking rattlesnake looked like a friend in
comparing.

[Illustration: That pony had been harder to get near than any of the
wild ones he was with.]

But the breed hadn't been for quitting,--he couldn't stand to have
anything get the best of him, not even an ornery pony, and as Smoky
enjoyed his wild freedom them summer months, the breed had kept a
studying which circle Smoky and the wild ones would take whenever
they was being chased, and getting a good lay of the land he finally
figgered a plan.

And, that's how come, when he started out after Smoky again in the fall
he knowed just where to place a relay string of ponies. At the other
end was a trap corral and well hid--Then the breed spotted the horse
late one afternoon, and fell in behind him and the other wild ones he
was with. It had been a long chase, the wild ones had dropped out of
the run one by one and branched to one side, but Smoky and the rest
of the strongest had kept on right along on the trail where the breed
had stationed his fresh relay horses. Finally, and as the breed kept a
coming in on 'em with fresh horses, the strongest of the mustangs kept
a branching out, but Smoky had kept on straight ahead, till, leg weary
and staggering, he'd found himself in the wings of the trap corral, and
then inside, past being able to see the grinning halfbreed who'd closed
the gate on him.

       *       *       *       *       *

A few days went by when Smoky seemed in a trance. He remembered some
of being led and jerked all the way back to the breed's hangout, of
being saddled the next day and jerked around some more, and then rode
out and with spur and quirt, made to trot around. He didn't realize the
breed had set on him or he didn't seem to care. The little hay that was
throwed out to him wasn't noticed, and hardly did he drink,--only if by
chance he happened to mope around the corral and find himself standing
in the stream that was running in one side of it.

There was everything about the horse to indicate that in a few more
days he'd be laying down, never to get up no more; his trail seemed
fast coming to an end, and the heart that was left in him had shrunk
till nary a beat of it could be felt. The breed kept a riding him out,
thinking he at last and for sure had the horse right where he wanted
him.

"I'll make a good horse out of you, you scrub," he'd say as he'd beat
him over the head with his quirt and at the same time cut him with
the spur. Smoky had seemed to feel neither the quirt nor the spur.
He didn't flinch nor even bat an eye as both would come down on him
and leave the marks. There seemed to be no sign of hopes or life left
in the horse, and the abuse went on till, finally, one day the breed
happened to cut the horse a little deeper and in a more sensitive place.

That cut had stirred the pony's shrunk up heart, and a faint spark had
showed in his eyes for a second. The next day Smoky even snorted a
little as the breed walked into the corral, and he tried to buck some
as he climbed into the saddle. The breed was surprised at the new show
of spirit, and remarked as he took down his quirt:

"I'll take _that_ out of you."

From that day on Smoky's heart begin to expand towards natural size
once more--But it wasn't the same kind of heart that had once been
his,--that first one had died, and this one had took root from abuse,
growed from rough treatment to full size, and with hankerings in it
only for finding and destroying all that wasn't to his liking. And
there was nothing to his liking no more.

The breed he hated more than anything in the world, but Smoky, with
that new heart of his, wasn't for showing them feelings much. He'd got
wise in ways of how and when to do his fighting, and where it'd do most
good;--he'd wait for a chance. In the meantime he'd got to eating every
stem of what little hay the breed would hand him; he'd have to live to
carry out them new ambitions of his.

But somehow, a hint of Smoky's new ambitions must of leaked out; anyway
the breed had a hunch that it wouldn't be well for him to come too
close to that pony's teeth and hoofs. He'd often watch him thru the
corral poles and wonder, he'd sometimes wonder if it wouldn't be best
to just place a forty-five slug between that pony's ears instead of
fooling with him, but the hopes of still being able to sell the horse
for a good price would always keep him from drawing his gun.

[Illustration: The breed would often watch him thru the corral poles
and wonder, he'd sometimes wonder if it wouldn't be best to just place
a forty-five slug between that pony's ears instead of fooling with him.]

"A good long ride'll fix you," says the breed one morning as he drug
his saddle near the corral chute. "And I've got a hell of a long one
ahead for you to-day."

Smoky was prodded into the chute with a long pole, and saddled where he
couldn't move. Then the breed climbed in the saddle, opened the chute
gate and started the horse out on a long run.

Ten miles of country was covered which Smoky didn't see; his instinct
made him dodge badger holes and jump washouts, and his eyes and ears
was steady back and on the human he was packing, if he could only reach
with his teeth and get him down.

The breed's spurs kept a gouging him, and along with the quirt a
pounding, Smoky was kept into a high lope. With that kind of tattoo
being played on him the pony gradually begin to warm up and getting
peeved, it wouldn't be long, if that gait was kept up, when he'd be
reaching the boiling point, and then get desperate.

A steep bank was reached by the edge of a creek, and there Smoky sorta
hesitated a second. His ears and eyes was pointed ahead for that second
and looking for a place where the going down wouldn't be so sudden,
when the breed, always looking for some reason to deal the horse
misery, put the steel and layed the quirt to him at once. That took
Smoky by surprise, and the flame that'd been smoldering in his heart
loomed up into an active volcano all at once.

Down over the bank he went, and when he landed he had his head between
his front legs and went to bucking from there. By some miracle the
breed stuck him for half a dozen jumps, then he made a circle in the
air and landed on all fours at the foot of the bank.

A shadow on the ground and right by him made the breed reach for his
gun near as quick as he landed; it was the shadow of the horse and _too
close_; his gun was out of the holster and he turned to use it; but he
was just the splinter of a second too late, and the six-shooter was
buried in the ground as Smoky, like a big cougar, pounced on him.




                              CHAPTER XII

                        "WHEN THE GOOD LEAVES"


Big posters was tacked on the telegraph poles all around the little
town of Gramah. Them posters could be seen in many windows of the
town's stores, and advertised the coming rodeo and cowboys' reunion.
Amongst the prizes that was wrote down on the poster was prints from
photographs of bucking horses and steers, and taking most of the room
in the centre of it was the picture of a bucking horse which outdone
all the others. It showed that horse throwing his rider in a way few
riders ever get throwed. Then in big letters underneath was the words:
THE COUGAR CHALLENGES THE WORLD'S BEST.

The Cougar was the name of a bucking horse, the main attraction, and
challenger to all the good riders of the country. No line was drawed
as to where them riders came from or how far, and the purse that was
offered for the one who could ride that horse and scratch him was
enough to make any good rider want to come a long ways and try.

Many had come and tried him at other rodeos and where The Cougar had
performed, and found that that pony was no ordinary bucking horse, and
as all that tried him could tell, afterwards, there was more than his
bucking to contend with; he was mean, there was murder in his eye, and
if it wasn't for the "pick-up" men who hazed him, many a cowboy would
of been pawed to pieces even before he could of hit the ground.

That pony seemed to have a grudge against humans in general; his
ambition was for exterminating 'em all off the face of the earth. But
there was one thing which the riders noticed in him as most queer,
and that was in the way he seemed to hate some humans worse than
others,--his hate was plainest for the face that showed dark.

A story followed the horse, and which kept a being repeated as rider
met rider at different rodeos and frontier day celebrations. It was
that the horse had been found on the desert, amongst a bunch of wild
horses and packing an empty saddle. There'd been dried blood sticking
to the hair along his jaw, and some more on his knees; the horse had
been roped and tied down and the riders had looked for signs of wounds
or cuts on his hide but nary a scratch had been found.

[Illustration: The horse had been found out in the desert, amongst a
bunch of wild horses and packing an empty saddle.]

The horse was then advertised in the county and State papers and
described as "A mouse colored, blaze faced, stocking legged gelding,
and packing a brand that looked like a blotched wagon wheel." The
advertisement was kept running for two weeks and nobody showed to claim
the horse. He was kept in the pasture for a few days more, and then one
day one of the riders run him in the corral.

The cowboy had liked the looks of the pony from the day he'd set eyes
on him; he'd figgered him as an ordinary horse that'd been spoiled a
little, and shaking out a loop, there'd been no doubt in his mind but
what that could be took out of him easy enough. But he hadn't got
very far when he found that the pony would have to be throwed before a
saddle could ever be put on his back. There was a look in the horse's
eye which he didn't like, and that cowboy having handled all kind of
horses knowed mighty well what that look meant.

He kept his distance, and from there worked his ropes till the horse
went down to his knees and then flat to the ground. The saddle was
cinched on tight, and seeing that the hackamore was on the pony's
head to stay, the cowboy took his seat while the horse was down, and
reaching over took the foot ropes off.

What went on in the next few minutes was past ever being described with
talk, and as that cowboy felt, telling about it would be a disgrace as
compared with what really happened--something like trying to paint the
Grand Canyon of Arizona on black canvas with black paint.

Anyway, that cowboy had reached for the top pole of the corral and
got on the other side of it before the pony had really got started to
whatever he was up to, and there on the safe side he done a mental
round up, and it all came to him. He remembered the empty saddle that
was on the pony's back when found that day two weeks past--then the
dried blood that'd been on his jaw and more of it on his knees--.

The cowboy had remarked as thru the corral poles he'd watched the man
killer:

"A twelve hundred pound mountain lion is what that horse is."

That's where his name Cougar had come in, and no horse never lived up
to a name like the mouse colored gelding did to his.

Then had come rumors of a Fourth of July celebration which was going
to be pulled off in some big town to the south; there was to be bronc
riding and everything that went with it. A prize of a hundred dollars
had been offered for the best bucking horse, and that's how come one
day that The Cougar made his first appearance before a grandstand. A
warning was given to the "pick-up" man and "hazers" to be on hand and
watch out nobody got hurt, and them few words of warning that way had
proved to sound mighty right before that day was over.

The Cougar had been _tried_ out, and then a hundred dollars was
handed to the rider who'd brought him in. He'd won the prize. There
was no doubt in anybody's mind but what that pony was by a long ways
the meanest and hardest horse to ride there, and not only there, but
anywhere else and wherever hard bucking horses was rode. Fifty dollars
additional was offered for the right to keep the horse for rodeo
purposes. That was refused, and when the last day of the doings come,
and the riders came up for the "finals" another fifty was added to the
first offer, and accepted. A bill of sale was made out, and The Cougar
from that day on was drove from stockyard to stock car and from arena
to arena.

In front of the crowded grandstand is where his fame as a fighting, man
hating, bucking outlaw begin to spread, and from State to State, town
and range folks alike was on hand and whenever he was to be rode and
handled; for watching that horse perform was alone worth more than the
price that was asked for the ticket at the gate of the rodeo grounds.

[Illustration: In front of the crowded grandstand is where his fame as
a man-hating, bucking outlaw begin to spread.]

It wasn't long when the folks thru whole of the southwestern states
begin to talk of The Cougar as they did of their favorite movie actor,
actress, or the Prince of Wales. Tourists from Europe and from all
parts of the U. S. came and went, and carried stories with 'em about
the wonders of the wickedness of that horse. Then rodeo committees
begin to perk up their ears, and at the same time started bidding for
him. The Cougar's presence got to be valuable, and came a time when
five hundred dollars was offered by a rival who also made a business
of furnishing rodeos with strings of bucking stock. The offer wasn't
considered, none at all, and the riders around had their doubts if even
a thousand would change the ownership of that horse.

Every summer thru, the mouse colored outlaw was skipped along with the
others more or less of his kind and unloaded at some different rodeo
grounds; every few weeks and for three or four days he was _rode at_.
Twice or three times a day during the doings, some strange rider would
climb him, the chute gate would fly open, and out would come a tearing,
bellering hunk of steel coils to land out a ways, and like a ton of
lava from up above, jar the earth even up to the grandstand.

[Illustration: The chute gate would fly open, and out would come a
tearing, bellering hunk of steel coils to land out a ways, and like a
ton of lava from above, jar the earth even up to the grandstand.]

The judges, pick-up men, and others around would find themselves short
about ten pairs of eyes as all tried to catch every crooked move that
pony put into his work. All breaths seemed to be held up during that
time, but never no time was them breaths held up for very long, cause,
very soon, there'd be a scattering of a tall cowboy, who, from the
chute had started on top, took a lot of wicked jars while setting
there, and so high, and good rider as he'd have to be, soon come to
conclude that it sure was no disgrace to be separated from his saddle
and flung out a ways--not on that horse.

Very seldom would the rider have to walk back very far, and sometimes
only a few feet was between the rider who was picking himself up and
the chute where he'd rode out from so fast and furious.

As an all around outlaw and bucking horse The Cougar had no rival;
there wasn't a horse in the state or any state neighboring that could
compete with him in either fighting or bucking, and folks seeing or
studying the horse often wondered; for anybody who knowed horses could
see that that horse hadn't been born a natural outlaw like most of
the rodeo's bucking horses generally are; that pony had brains, a big
supply of 'em and which showed in the way he'd go about throwing his
man. He wasn't like the average bucking horse, who'd often buck back
under the man that was already loosened, and instead, when The Cougar
felt a man lose an inch, that inch was never got back. The saddle kept
a getting away from him from then on.

But there was more and which was all proof as to the amount of brains
that pony carried, there was his hate for the man, and which showed the
same as the hate one human would have for another, only it was more
dangerous. And then again, and as the cowboy who took care of him often
remarked:--

"The way that horse packs a grudge, somebody sure must of dealt him a
dirty deal some time or other. I know there's sure something on his
mind besides that too, and like he's pining for something that's gone
and hopeless; at them times he acts like he wants my company the same
as tho he was craving for somebody, but them spells don't last long,
and soon he seems to come back to earth and realizing things. Then's
when I'm not within reaching distance no more--but by golly, I sure
wish sometimes that horse would like me as well as he hates."

The first two years he put in as The Cougar and bad horse was the most
ferocious two years any horse went thru. It was wicked times, not only
for the horse, but for all who handled and tried to ride him. There
was so much poison in that pony's heart that the only way he could
live was by hating and being hated; he fed on it, and the bars or
poles that was between him and whoever he wanted to get at in his fits
of wickedness showed signs a plenty of his hankering to murder,--the
destroying ability of that pony's teeth and hoofs sure was visible, and
convincing.

He wasn't at all the same horse that'd faced a cowboy some eight years
or so past. He hadn't wanted to fight then, he'd just wanted to get
away and be left alone and he'd only fought the rope that held him,
and even tho his suspicions and hate of the human had been natural he
hadn't seen anything about that cowboy he wanted to disfigure.

He'd done a mighty neat job of bucking in the Rocking R corrals and
made Clint pay attention to his riding pretty well; but his bucking
then, even tho it was hard, didn't compare much with the bucking of
The Cougar. He'd just been bucking thru instinct, it was the natural
thing for a brainy range horse to do, and when he bucked it wasn't for
meaness but just to see if he couldn't get out from under that rig and
man. He'd felt like it didn't belong up there in the middle of him, and
he'd only wanted to make sure that it all could stick.

He'd given it all a mighty good test of course, but as compared with
the way Smoky had acted with how he was now acting as The Cougar, it
would match well with a man playing a peaceful game of solitary and a
gambler dealing for his life with some hated enemy.

The Cougar would of killed himself to get his man, he was past caring
for his own hide and only lived to hate, but even as strong as that
hate was, it was queer to see that he wasn't interested to do damage
only to the men that handled or tried to ride him. Maybe that was
because there was always so many around,--the grandstands was full of
people and it was the same around the shutes and corrals of the rodeo
grounds. Them crowds might of confused him to a standstill and sort of
made him keep neutral till only one or two come near.

Another thing that might of fooled a few was the way The Cougar carried
his ears. Most every town person has noticed how some horses in the
city's streets have some kind of leather muzzles to keep 'em from
biting passing folks. Them horses have their ears back most of the
time and whenever somebody comes near, they have a mighty cranky look
too, but as a rule they're not as wicked as they look,--it's just that
they're tired of having everybody that goes by stop and try to feed 'em
peanuts or apples and such, or being petted and sometimes rubbed the
wrong way. Some horses' disposition can't stand it, and them few seem
to get so that they can't keep their ears forward and look pleasant any
time;--they're always laying 'em back and looking like they would do
some damage, but the most they would do if they had no muzzle would be
to maybe just nip a little hunk of hard-twist serge or a little silk
off different folks' arms.

Like a feller says to me one time, "it's just that they're bored."

The horse out on the range, no matter how mean he might be, hardly ever
puts his ears back at a human; when he does, it's only once in a coon's
age and only for the split of a second,--in the next split of that
second _something has happened_.

The Cougar, being a sure enough range horse and with real mustang[4]
blood to boot carried his ears in the ways of that kind. He'd look at
a man thru the shute timbers and with his ears _straight ahead_, but
in them eyes under the shadow of them ears was a fair picture of what
would happen if that man ever stepped in that shute with him. It didn't
need no imagination to see it either.

[Footnote 4: Of the early Spanish.]

Never did The Cougar lay his ears back unless he was sure of his
victim. When he did there'd be an ambulance wagon racing thru the arena
and remarks in queer low tones passed by white faced folks up in the
grandstand, which all kept accumulating and piled up in The Cougar's
reputation as a bad horse.

       *       *       *       *       *

A little bit of a freckle faced hombre who'd made the "grand finals"
was along the shute one day and "up" to ride The Cougar. He'd come
from acrost the border, and thru the first three days of the rodeo had
proved himself to be a "ranahan"[5] in bronc riding as well as in steer
roping.

[Footnote 5: Top hand.]

"By golly," he was heard to say as The Cougar was hazed into the
saddling shute, "I've come a long ways to get a setting at that pony."
He felt of his taped spurs to make sure they was there to stay, "and
if you watch close," he went on, grinning, "I'll give you all a few
lessons on how to play a tune with a spur rowel at the tip of a pony's
ears."

The little "vaquero"[6] was feeling good, he hadn't been to town
for a year or more, and a chance to ride a mean horse where there
was folks around was a big change to him; barrel cactus and Spanish
dagger had been the only witnesses to his riding ability, and riding a
side-winding pony on dobie flats or high mesas wasn't so apt to bring
out the best in a rider as when in a nice arena where there's a band
playing and folks a cheering.

[Footnote 6: Cowboy.]

"There's a horse to my liking," he says as he took a look at The
Cougar. The way that pony was acting while being saddled didn't faze
the rider none at all, the grin on his face kept a spreading all the
wider as he made ready to climb the chute; he'd handled many a fighting
horse, and to him they all could do only one thing, and that was their
worst.

As a true rider of the range he welcomed anything that'd test his skill
and ability, and if The Cougar had come straight up from hell, wore
horns, a forked tail, and cloven hoof, he'd of grinned all the more and
bet his year's earnings that he could send him back to where he came
with his tail between his legs and hollering "enough."

"Rider up," hollered the hazer, but the judges was already watching,
for it was The Cougar "coming out."

The cowboy let out a war whoop and grinned as the chute gate flew open
and The Cougar came "uncorked," he packed that grin past the judges and
at the same time "reefed" (spurred) the earth jarring outlaw with
_taped_ rowels from back of the ear to the back of the saddle skirts.

"Yee-e-e-ep!" he howled, as the bellering Cougar left the earth once
more. A cloud of dust went up which kept the judges from seeing what
went on, but even if there'd been no dust they couldn't of followed
what all had happened, it had happened too fast. In the next particle
of time a twisting hunk of mouse colored horse flesh was tearing up
the arena towards the chutes and the fence along it. The cowboy was
still war whooping and fanning but he was to one side and being snapped
around like a whip lash. The Cougar had found his stride and, as usual,
was getting his man.

The "pick up men" rode up to grab holt of the horse's head and before
the man was throwed, but they was just too late and in another second
something happened that made everybody in the grandstand turn pale
and hang on to each other, for the cowboy, still a fanning, was, by a
wicked jolt, loosened from his saddle and headed for the ground. The
Cougar reared up while the rider was still in the air, then turned,
and with ears back, teeth a flashing, hoofs a striking with lightning
speed, went to carry out his heart's cravings.

[Illustration: The Cougar reared up while the rider was still in the
air, then turned, and with his ears back, teeth a flashing, hoofs a
striking with lightning speed, went to carry out his heart's craving.]

The man was juggled up there for a second and then came down, the
horse, like the cougar he was, right after him and to finish what he'd
started.

It was then that Providence or something seemed to interfere, for as
the rider came down and reached the earth he was on the other side of
the fence, which kept him from being totally reduced to dust. But even
with the fence separating, The Cougar wasn't thru. There was a noise
of splintering timbers as he tried to reach the cowboy, and it wasn't
till two ropes settled around his neck and pulled him away that it was
what you'd call ended.

A few riders rushed up to find the cowboy setting up and shaking his
head like a trying to get back amongst the living. Pretty soon he
looked up at the men around him and a sort of vacant grin spread over
his features; then he looked at his clothes, noticed his shirt was most
tore off of him. He wrinkled his face as he moved his body and felt
kinks along his ribs and back, and looked at his hand-made rawhide
chaps which showed marks where hard hoofs had connected. The sight of
them made him grin again, and after a while he says:

"Daggone good thing I had these chaps on or I'd be setting here and
going Adam one better."

From that day on the freckle faced cowboy was, or tried to be, at every
rodeo and near whatever chute The Cougar honored by his presence. He'd
run up against a horse he couldn't ride; it was hard to take and he
couldn't get it into his head how it was done. He'd never seen a horse
he couldn't ride before, but there was more and which all kept the
cowboy to following the outlaw, the unnatural meanness of that pony had
him guessing, and he sort of wanted to figger it out while a setting on
top--_There_ was a horse that not only called for skill and nerve, but
the thinking ability of the pony was sure worth a trying to match.

Winters and springs and falls found him on the range and doing his work
there, he was getting all kinds of good practice with his every day
work, and when summers come he was always on the trail of The Cougar
and with new hopes that he could go back to the range and tell his
"majordomo" that he "rode him, slick and clean and to a standstill."

For two summers he followed him, in that time, competing with other
good riders, he'd had three chances at him and each time them chances
wound up with him hitting the ground, and running as he hit.

"That horse sure means what he does," he was heard to say to one of the
riders one time, "and by golly that's just what makes me keep after
him."

       *       *       *       *       *

Three more long summers of rodeo work went by, and The Cougar kept
on a challenging the world's best riders. Another spring came, more
rodeos was followed and where it was advertised that "The Cougar Will
be Present." The posters went on a telling how in five years time no
rider had been able to set the horse till the gun was fired, and as the
cowboys remarked, "That was one truthful statement."

Smoky kept on a throwing men right and left that spring and on thru
the summer. He kept his record and back clean that way till away along
towards the fall, and then one day at the start of another rodeo, a
cowboy from the Wyoming country, and who'd come south for the winter,
happened to hear of the doings. A couple of days later that bronc
fighter showed himself at the rodeo headquarters, and remarking how
he'd heard of The Cougar, signed his name and entered on bronc riding.

He qualified and went thru the "tryouts" and "semi-finals" like it all
was so much play. The Cougar was a horse kept for the finals only, and
that's the pony the cowboy had been trying to reach, the others he'd
had to ride had only been a means for him to get to The Cougar.

He'd easy won the right to ride that horse, and also the chance to win
the thousand dollars that was up for any rider that could. He hung
around the chute and mighty close the next afternoon. Soon the time
would come for him to really try his ability, and while waiting he
was using that time to seeing that the latigoes and cinch had no weak
spots, and would be able to stand the strain of staying around the
middle of that Cougar horse.

Then the judges hollered out his name as the next rider out, and about
that time the mouse colored outlaw peeked thru the bars of the chute at
him and snorted, the rider whistled at the sight of the mean looking
head, and, grinning a little, remarked:

"I got a hunch that this pony is going to be totally different than any
horse I ever rode, but here goes, and I got to wish myself luck."

[Illustration: About that time the mouse colored outlaw peeked thru the
bars of the chute at him and snorted.]

"You'll need lots of that," says one of the cowboys.

The saddle was on, the cinch reached for and drawed up to stay, and
then the rider climbed over the poles of the chute and took his seat
on a back that'd throwed the country's best riders. He pulled the rope
rein up just tight enough, worked his feet ahead a little, and setting
back some to sort of meet the first jolt. He took off his hat, layed
all the balance he could in it, and then hollered:

"We're coming out."

"Coming out" was right, but "shot out" would of been more fitting in
that case; anyway, the judges hardly seen either the horse or the man
till both was _out there_, and both a fighting to win.--There was a
mighty big surprise showing on all the faces around when as the first
big cloud of dust cleared, it was noticed the rider was still _up
there_, and what's more, all indicated that he was going to stay there.

The judges was a setting on their horses, and pop-eyed with the miracle
of the performance looked on petrified. Such a rider on such a horse
was seldom seen, and they was so all took up with the goings on, they
didn't notice that the rider had rode past the limit, and forgot to
fire the gun marking the end of the ride, then somebody hollered and
jarred 'em out of the trance they was in.

[Illustration: He wasn't caring right then if it was said that he
didn't ride the horse to the finish.]

The shot was fired, and the report had no more than died down when
the rider seemed to quit from there and fell off the horse,--the
punishment he'd took in that ride had been enough to do him for many a
day to come. He'd felt like his backbone was going to be pushed thru
his throat from the first jump, and that feeling had kept a repeating
right along with each fast coming jolt till he was near unconscious.
Being the rider he was, he stuck there and tried to fight away the
dizzy feeling and keep track of the horse at the same time; then after
what seemed an hour, he heard a faint echo of the shot, and realized
in a way that he'd qualified for first money. _He'd been the first man
to ride that horse past the judges_, and that was enough,--he wasn't
caring right then if it would be said that he didn't ride the horse to
the finish.

One of the riders who knowed The Cougar _mighty well_ had watched the
horse "come out" with the same thrill that'd always been his at that
time. He'd seen the pony come out many a time before, and as that last
performance came to an end, he leaned over to one of the boys near him,
and says:

"Do you know, it strikes me like The Cougar is beginning to fade out as
a bucking horse. I don't think that pony's been keeping up his standard
the last few times he's been rode, and specially this last time.--If
that cowboy who's just left him had straddled him last summer, I'm sure
and certain that he wouldn't of stuck as long as he did."

"Well, I've been sort of noticing that too, and figgered the horse
had slowed down some," agrees the other rider, "but that's got to be
expected, considering that The Cougar's been in the arenas for going on
six years now--I don't see, myself, how them legs of his has been able
to stand the strain _that_ long."

Them remarks was true,--nothing was meant against the cowboy who'd been
the first to stick him past the judges; and as them words was said
they meant just that, with no hint that _they_ could of done the same,
and what's more, other cowboys had noticed the same what these two had
spoke of. The Cougar was beginning to slow down,--but that last would
maybe give some idea of what a bucking horse The Cougar really was, _or
had been_.

That pony slowing down that way begin to be noticed more and more every
time he was rode. The little vaquero from acrost the border went back
satisfied that fall: he'd been the second man to _ride_ The Cougar,
and when the last rodeo of the year had been pulled off The Cougar had
been rode twice more, _and to a finish_. The folks in the grandstands
was surprised, and come to the conclusion that he wasn't so much of a
bucking horse after all, but they didn't realize.--Anyway, the thousand
dollar purse that'd been offered for anyone who could ride him had
dwindled down to five hundred, and The Cougar was fast losing the
reputation he'd made as a man-hating bucking horse.

Even his hate for the human had seemed to die down. He'd throwed a
rider one day who'd landed right in front of him; the crowd had held
their breath, expecting to see that cowboy mangled to pieces right
before their eyes. All that would of happened, and mighty quick a year
or so before, but this time the outlaw didn't seem to notice the man.
He'd bucked on right over him and seeming like careful how he placed
his hoofs as he'd went so as to miss him.--There was murmurs in the
grandstand afterwards that The Cougar was no outlaw at all, maybe just
a pet and trained to buck, and like his man killing reputation, which
was most likely only a sort of a draw card and advertising for the
rodeo.

But whatever the folks in the grandstand thought, Smoky had reasons of
his own for gradually getting away from being The Cougar. It wasn't
that his legs was getting stove up or giving away on him so much as
the way things had come to him as year after year he met up with the
strange riders that'd come to try him, and even tho none of 'em seemed
to want a _close acquaintance_ with him, there was nothing about them
boys for the hate he was packing to feed on.

Not once, since that day he'd bogged his head in front of the first
grandstand, had a club, nor even a twig, ever been layed on him. For
the first couple of years, Smoky had let the heart the halfbreed had
transplanted in him, control his actions. The poison of hate in that
heart had kept him from noticing or go according to the good treatment
he'd been getting, and it was close on to the fifth year before his
ears begin to perk up to the show of admiration and respect that was
handed him from all around.

The name of The Cougar lived on for a spell, but the horse that had
been packing that name was fast getting away from having the right to
such.--Then the next spring came and with it rodeos begin to be pulled
off here and there, good riders begin following The Cougar again as
before, and with the hopes that some day, sometime or other, they'd be
able to pull their riggins off that pony's back and be able to say:

"I rode him."

But long before middle summer come, them hopes had died down in many of
the boys, for The Cougar wasn't The Cougar no more. Them fast, crooked,
and hard hitting jumps of his, and which had jarred the thoughts and
balance out of so many a good rider, had died down, and put the horse
as an average with the other bucking horses. Rider after rider forked
him, and sorta disappointed, had rode and fanned him easy enough, where
a year or so before no fanning had been required to qualify.

The Cougar kept a bucking on and on every time he was saddled, and he
was rode thru to the finish oftener and oftener till finally, no rider
was ever throwed no more, not from that pony's back.

The heart of The Cougar was shriveling up and leaving space for the
heart that was Smoky's, and that heart, even tho older and weaker was
making a mighty strong stand, and steady coming back.

Soon, there came a time when the mouse colored outlaw didn't have to
be handled from a distance no more; no high corral was needed for
protection against his teeth and hoofs, and like most of the other
buckers he could be led from the stock car to the rodeo grounds without
any other ropes holding him back, and away from the man that was
leading him.

Then one day, a rider brought in a big raw-boned grey, remarking that
"_here_ was an outlaw," and an outlaw he was, sure enough. From his
Roman nose on up to his sunk, dead looking eyes, and taking in his
lantern jaws on to his thick neck and along with the rest of him, all
indicated the _natural_ outlaw, but what made him as a most valuable
horse for the rodeos, was in the how he could buck; that's all he
knowed, and like all natural outlaws that way, that's all he wanted to
know.

Right away, he was called "The Grey Cougar," the same as to try and
bring back the real Cougar. But there was no comparing the grey outlaw
with The Cougar, not when that last one had meant business. To begin
with, the grey horse was mean only because it was his natural instinct
to be that way, he didn't have the special ambition nor the brains that
The Cougar had. With the grey it was just jug headed orneriness, and in
no way could he compete with the mouse colored man killer, but he made
a fine outlaw just the same, a second best that'd do.

He managed to buck a few men off from the start, and right then is
when the Old Cougar begin sliding into the background, for it'd been
quite a spell since that pony had made a man ride for his money.--The
appearance of the grey outlaw had kinda marked the downhill start for
Smoky's career as a bucking horse, and then one day the end came sure
enough, and in a few minutes.

As usual, The Cougar was announced to the crowd, and them in the
grandstand who'd often heard but never seen that wicked pony in action
was naturally mighty interested as that notorious horse made his
appearance in the saddling chute. Many in the crowd had seen him buck
before, and some of them stopped breathing for a spell and while the
gate was opened, most anything was expected, from that horse, and all
of them that looked on felt sure of seeing something that'd come up to
their expectations, and then some.

The gate was opened, and out came a streak of a mouse colored horse
with a cowboy on top, and The Cougar, that famous outlaw, lined out
acrost the ground _on a long lope_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Anywheres, and in any line, very little respect is ever showed for
a "has been." If The Cougar had fought and tore things up as he'd
once had, all would of been hunkydory, and the crowd would all been
satisfied, but the horse had come to the end of his fighting streak.
Not a jump was left in him, for the Smoky heart had growed over and
smothered the heart that'd been The Cougar's. He was a "has been" and
only willing to be the plain behaving Smoky again.

The crowd was disappointed, they felt they wasn't getting their money's
worth, and there was hollers of "take him away and hook him up on a
milk wagon," or "sell him for a lady's saddle horse," and so on.--It
was queer, but only natural, to notice that them loud mouth remarks was
passed only by the most useless, and of the kind that's plum helpless
whenever away from their home grounds. Others hollered more to kind of
show off, but the looks they'd get from the sensible folks around only
went to prove that the show off was of just plain _ignorance_.

The cowboy rode The Cougar till the other side of the grounds was
reached. There he stopped him and climbed off, and hearing the hurrahs
from the grandstand, he touched the horse on the neck and says:

"Never mind, old horse, you've done yours--and I'd liked mighty well if
I could of turned you loose amongst that bunch that's making all that
noise up there, and watch 'em scatter,--but you're not fighting any
more."

The rodeo was on its last day, the prizes was handed out that night,
and the next morning the bucking horses was loaded in the stock cars on
the way for some other town where another rodeo was going to be pulled
off. In them box cars there was one place where The Cougar had stood
while on the road, but this time, and in that same place was a grey
horse who snorted as the train begin to move--The Cougar had been left
behind, and from the inside of the stock yards watched the train pull
out of sight.




                             CHAPTER XIII

                          "A MANY-MEN HORSE"


The Cougar being he was useless for rodeo purposes, had been sold to
the livery stable man for twenty-five dollars.

It was figgered that at least twenty-five dollars worth of use would
be got out of him there,--the horse was fat and strong looking, could
be broke to harness, and made to do his share with any of the six and
eight horse teams which was kept on the road acrost the deserts as
freight teams.

But one day, and before the harness ever disgraced The Cougar's hide,
a bunch of tourists had flocked into town to stay for a spell, and one
of the crowd suggested a little horseback riding. The livery stable man
was at once swamped with orders for saddle horses, and before he got
thru tallying up how many he could furnish, he found he was short of
about three. By scouting around, he dug up two more, but he was still
short one, and then his eye fell on the mouse colored horse.

At first, he was for overlooking that horse entirely, but as he needed
one more to finish up the party, he couldn't very well afford to
overlook any horse that might do. He caught the horse and saddled him,
and scared but game, he got in the saddle. If that pony still had one
jump left in him, it was up to that old boy to find out, and one jump
from _that horse_ would be that much too many. He'd never do for no
tourist then.

But The Cougar never even humped up as he was rode around the stable
corrals. The man's legs begin to quit shaking, and as he sat there, his
face gradually turned from blank white to natural color again, and then
he begin to grin and show pleasant surprise as he noticed how well the
horse reined whichever way was wanted.

"By japers," he remarked to the stable door, "this feller is a real
saddle horse."

So, when the tourists, all togged up in their shiny riding habits,
appeared some time later, the stable man was all ready and waiting for
'em. He sized 'em all up as to which would get along with each horse
best, and being he was still dubious as to what The Cougar might do, he
looked 'em all over careful once more till the strongest and most able
looking young man in the bunch was spotted.

The Cougar's reins was handed to him, and sort of cautious, he asked:

"I suppose you know how to ride well?"

That young man turned on him, surprised at such a question, and
answered sarcastic:

"Why certainly."

The stable man grinned as he watched him and all ride up the street;
"Why certainly," he says to himself, and grinned some more. "I hope
he's just as _certain_ on his riding when he gets back."

It was evening before the party, slouching all over their horses,
returned to the stable. The stable man smiled, satisfied, as he noticed
that the young feller, not at all mussed up, was still riding The
Cougar. He'd been worried about letting that young feller have the
horse, but everything was o. k. now and the folks seemed to've all
enjoyed their ride considerable, and so well that they wanted the
horses again for the next day.

"This is a very fine horse," says the young feller as he got off The
Cougar. There was all about him that as much as went on to say, "Why
certainly I can ride."

The stable man had seen many like him, and knowed exactly _how well_ he
could ride, but he was relieved in learning that The Cougar had behaved
so well.

"And what's this horse's name?" asks the young feller.

For a minute the stable man done some tall thinking; if the horse's
real name was given out, the young feller would sure swell up and bust
in learning that he'd rode the famous outlaw nobody else had been
able to ride for so long, and even tho the horse hadn't made a single
jump with him, his "_certainly_" would get more conceited than ever.
And then again, he maybe wouldn't want the horse any more. So after
hesitating a while he finally came onto a new name for the horse.

"Cloudy, is that horse's name," he says.

That name sounded sort of pleasing all around, and it fitted the color
of the pony mighty well, but then the good points for it would never
loom up like the name of Smoky had in the cow country to the north,
nor would it ever be mentioned about from state to state and give
thrills just at the sound like the name of The Cougar had often done;
but then again that horse wasn't the same no more,--he'd went from top
cowhorse, to champion bucking horse and all around outlaw, only to fade
away in a livery stable, and there for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to
ride as they pleased. Cloudy, was just a livery plug.

       *       *       *       *       *

As a raw bronc and then cowhorse, Smoky had been for learning all that
could be learned. As The Cougar and outlaw, he'd been for killing and
disfiguring every man that gave him the chance. There'd been something
that called on him to do his best while on the Rocking R range, and
there he went to the top as a cowhorse. Something else, and very
different, had stirred his interest while in the arena of the rodeo
grounds; he'd shined there as a fighting outlaw, and in a way that'd
made all the others seem to be out of sight.

He'd had something big to work for, both on the range and in the arena,
but now it seemed like as the big livery stable doors closed on him
after his first day of use there, that the end of his string had come,
he'd sort of felt it in a way, soon as the last car of the bucking
horses he'd been with went and disappeared over the skyline. He hadn't
tried to get away, or even snorted when the stable man came in the
corral where he'd been left, and led him out.

He'd followed the man to the big stable, and as he was kept there, he
found nothing about the place nor the folks around that suggested
anything worth while working for. He was just a horse _there_, a plug
that could be rented by the hour or day, and even tho all seemed
strange and new compared to what he'd been used to, there was nothing
in the goings on which could put a spark in his eye.

Maybe it was that his heart was growing old, but anyway, and after
getting acquainted some with the place, the pony sort of took things
as they come without snorting out his opinions. He was fast getting
past caring,--his main interest in life soon begin to be only for the
manger of hay and the little grain that was fed him when the day's work
was done. One day the stable man came and curried him, that was a new
experience for the horse; never had a curry comb ever touched his hide
before. Somehow he didn't mind it, and then come a time when the feel
of that performance was looked forward to, it felt near as good as a
good roll in the dirt. The currying, his feed of grain, a rest, and to
be left alone, had got to be the remains of the mouse colored pony's
ambitions.

But he had to work, and earn what hay and care was handed him, he
didn't mind working, but all this aimless chasing around he was took
out to do most every day wasn't at all to that pony's liking. He'd
been broke to doing something useful, and which _had_ to be done.
Afterwards, and with his bucking, there was a reason, but with these
_equestrians_, as they was called, they didn't seem to know themselves
what they wanted to do, or where they wanted to go. They'd just wander
around and handle him with a rein in each hand like he was a plow
horse. They'd run him up and down streets where the ground was hard
on his feet, and let him walk where the going was soft and level. It
was no wonder that the end of the day, and the stall at the stable was
looked forward to so much.

Never before had that horse appreciated his night's rests as he was
now doing. He'd near close his eyes for the peace he'd feel then, and
eat his hay and grain slow, the same as tho he was fearing that as
soon as it was gone, he'd have to be out again, and going. There'd be
a short spell thru the night when he'd close his eyes all the way, and
his tired mind, like his tired body, would be at rest, and then after
a while, when his eyes would open again, he'd clean up what little hay
he'd left the night before, and that way, gather all the strength he
could for the day's work that was soon to begin.

Near every morning, early, a grey haired man, and sort of stout around
the middle, would come. A little "pancake" saddle with flapping iron
stirrups, would be put on the pony's back, and after a lot of hard work
and puffing, the equestrian would finally get up and on the horse, and
the early morning ride would begin.

The man was heavy, and set his saddle mighty awkward, but with all his
weight and awkwardness, and as Cloudy got acquainted some with the man,
he finally sort of took a liking for him. That one seemed to know where
he wanted to go, and when he got there, even tho it was no place in
perticular, the old feller would always get down off of him, sometimes
he'd talk to him, and Cloudy would listen,--it didn't matter if he
couldn't make heads or tails of what the talk was about, he just liked
the sound of his voice.

Them morning rides was always on the outside of town, up some canyon
or lane, and Cloudy felt better at them places, besides, he never was
rushed, and if he was put into a trot or a lope, it was done proper and
in a way both man and horse enjoyed. Seldom would any sweat ever show
after the ride was over and the stable was reached again.

But the day's work would be just beginning for Cloudy, and the stable
was no more than got into sight, when saddles would be changed and
another person, fresh, and aching for a _jaunt_, would get on him and
start out on another ride. When he'd be brought back at noon, he'd just
have time to eat his grain, when another equestrian would darken the
stable door, and ask for Cloudy.

"I enjoy riding that horse so, don't you know."

Everybody preferred Cloudy to any horse the stable man had, and being
that feller wasn't running that business for his health, he rented him
out every chance he got, and fed him an extra feed of grain so the
horse could stand up under the work. Sometimes that horse would be rode
till away into the night, then brought in dripping with sweat and often
staggering. But the next day his work went on just the same.

Folks of all ages, sizes, built, and packing from none to a big amount
of brains, came and rode Cloudy. Once in a while he'd be handled right
and like it was known that a horse has feelings, and brains, but most
of the time, his feelings wasn't at all considered, no thought would
be given that the horse might of already went a long ways, or that he
might be tired. But amongst all that rode him, the boys was the worst,
and fast running the old pony downhill and towards the end.

The most of 'em would start the horse on a high lope, and from the time
they got on him till he was brought back, that high lope, instead of
being let up on, would most always wind up into a high run. Up and down
the side streets they'd race him, loan him to other boys to race him
some more, and each would do their best to show off on how fast they
could make the tired horse go.

There was times as the spur, a quirt was layed on the old horse, to
make him go faster; when The Cougar heart which had died in him near
showed signs of coming back to life again, but the pony's spirit had
dwindled down as the years accumulated, and he couldn't back the way
he felt. He was weary both in mind and body, and no chance was ever
given him so as to let either rest, and if once in a while the heart of
The Cougar did make a try at coming back it wasn't for long, the flame
would only sputter and go out, and another wrap with the quirt would
only make him try to do his best once again, as just plain Cloudy, the
livery stable plug.

The boys, girls, and grown ups kept a setting on the old horse, and
not knowing, but sure and steady was riding and dragging him down to
a death that'd be away ahead of the time when it should come--They'd
compared well with a pack of wolves, for like that kind, none of 'em
would ever wanted to come within a hundred yards of the horse when he
was up and a fighting. None of 'em would ever dreamed of wanting to
set on his back when he was The Cougar and hankering to fight and kill,
but now, and at last he was down, there was no fight in him no more,
and like the pack of wolves they compared so well with, they all closed
in on him.

The only difference was, the wolf pack killed their victim quick, they
don't leave the life drag on for days, weeks and months, nor let the
victim suffer to finally die slow and by degrees--Then again, the wolf
killed to eat and live.

But there was no blame ever attached to these human wolves who was
killing the horse only for the pleasure they'd get in riding him, and
the fine exercise that went with it, most of 'em meant well--Only they
didn't know. Cloudy, always true in whatever he done, was so willing,
no jab of the spur was needed to make him go, and his willingness to
do his best that way, was often if not always mistaken, and took for
granted that he was feeling good and rearing to go.

They didn't know the difference between a tired, wore out horse and one
that's fresh and fit to be rode--Then again, there was many who never
stopped to realize, to them, a horse was just a horse, and they didn't
know nothing about horses--That kind figgered a horse to be like an
automobile, always able to go and as fast as was wanted, and instead of
stepping on the gas like is done with a car, just give the horse the
whip, and that way keep him right on a going.

       *       *       *       *       *

A winter came and scattered the bright fall days four ways. The coming
of the long, cold winter, along with the raw winds that swept down from
the divide, brought to the folks around a dread of the dreary months
that was to follow; them folks wasn't for enjoying being out much any
more, and instead found a lot of comfort in being where there was a
roof over their heads, and a fire roaring between the four walls.

The tourists had all left, and scattered back to where they came. "The
town was dead," and many heads was got together a trying to figger ways
to break the monotony that'd took hold of the community. For two weeks
a cold wind had blowed down off the mountain and once in a while would
bring along light flakes of snow that kept a skipping and never seemed
to light.--The weather was cussed at by some, while others kept busy
bringing in wood and coal, and not any had a good word put in for Old
Man Winter, not any excepting one, and that one was only an old livery
stable plug.

That old plug couldn't of said anything anyway, but he done better, he
_felt_ what he couldn't say. He felt that the coming of winter that way
and the evaporating of the tourists and the others, as it came, was
all that saved what little life he had left. There was saddle sores on
his back, and he'd got to where there was nothing to him but a rack of
bones on which a hide hung,--that hide was faded from many a sweating,
and in spots the hair had wore off and left it bare. His weary legs
near buckled under him, and was hardly able to pack the weight he'd
reduced to, and another couple of weeks more the old pony would of
been done for--he'd long ago been going on his nerve, and that had been
fast wearing out on him.

But now, it looked like Old Man Winter had come just in time and saved
him from the bone pile. There'd been two weeks when the cold winds
howled, whistled thru the cracks of the stable and shook it, and in
them two weeks, the old horse had recuperated some till he was able to
listen to the howling wind and feel the while that no equestrian would
be showing up to interrupt the rest he was needing so bad.

Every person around wondered when that awful wind was going to stop,
but with Cloudy, and if he could of, he'd wished that wind would last
forever. It'd got to be sweet music to his ears, and he dozed to his
heart's content only to be woke up out of his dream to stare at a fresh
forkful of hay once in a while. Then he'd eat a spell, listen to the
wind some more, and on the sound of it, go to dozing again. May be
dreaming of a winter range, somewheres, and far away. Pecos is by him
maybe, while he dreams, then other ponies of the Rocking R, and on a
ridge watching him is Clint--the only real friend he'd ever knowed.

The winter months wore on and Cloudy begin to look like a horse again;
then spring come, and the air that came with it got the folks to
wanting to be out. One day the gray haired gent who'd rode Cloudy in
mornings of the summer before showed up again and was picked on as one
steady customer for the pony; then a few days later a young lady came
to the stable who "just loved horses," and asked if she could get
Cloudy every afternoon and whenever the weather was fit to ride in.

The stable man let her have the horse once and noticing what good care
she'd took of him, figgered her as another steady customer for the
old horse. With her and the grey haired man showing up every day he
allowed how that would be enough work for him, and none of the other
equestrians ever got a chance to set on that horse from then on.

A few years before, and if Cloudy had been the kind of a horse folks
would want to ride, that pony would of been able to take on a couple
more equestrians and stand up under the work easy enough, but now, he
was getting too old for much more riding, and the stable man realizing
that, was trying to make him last as long as he could. But Cloudy
was getting stiff mighty fast along the shoulders and front legs, he
couldn't reach out no more in the same stride that'd been his, and
instead, whenever a front foot touched the ground for another step, it
was like he was placing it on needles, and careful so as not to jar his
shoulders and the rest of his body any more than he could help.

There was times when he felt like he wanted to split the breeze the
same as he used to, but that feeling was mostly in his heart, and his
old legs couldn't follow up. Them old legs had hit the ground too hard,
too many times and jarred too many riders out of the saddle at the
rodeos where he'd performed as a bucking horse. Then the first year of
livery stable work where he was jammed around on the town's hard and
rocky streets put the kibosh on him for fair. The old tendons had been
called on to do too much.

But neither the old gent nor the young lady that was riding him every
day noticed the stiffness crawling up on the old horse. He still went,
and he still seemed willing to go some more, and far as they could tell
he was as good as any four year old. Both took care of him so well that
no hint ever came to either of 'em that they was riding an old horse
what had along ago earned freedom and a rest for what few years was
still his to live.

Every afternoon the girl came, her pockets loaded down with lumps of
sugar, and refusing help, saddled Cloudy and headed him for a trail
from where the scenery around could be seen and well. She'd pet him on
the neck and run her fingers thru his mane, and talk while the pony,
given plenty of time, would pick his way thru the rocks and brush.
She'd let him rest often while in the steepest climbs, and sometimes
would get out of the saddle so as to give him a better chance. At them
times, she'd reach in the pocket of her white riding habit and get a
few lumps of the sugar she'd brought for him.

Cloudy hadn't been much for sugar when it was first introduced to him.
He'd sniffed and snorted at the white lump, but the young lady had kept
it under his nose till he finally nibbled at it. It didn't taste so
bad, and he'd nibbled at it again, and some more, till came a time as
the girl kept a feeding it to him right along he'd got to looking for
it. He'd even stop sometimes, look back at her while she was on him,
and make it mighty plain that he wanted another one of them white
lumps, and when she was by him on the ground he kept a trying to stick
his nose in her pockets and reaching for 'em. He knowed where she
carried it.

What a surprise it would of been for the cowboys who knowed Cloudy when
he was The Cougar, the man killer, to've seen him in the act of bumming
a young lady for sugar that way, and what a surprise it would of been
for that same young lady to've learned that not so very long ago that
horse would of took her hand and snapped it off at the wrist if that
hand had ever come to within reaching distance.

It would of been a surprise sure enough, and afterwards, she'd
figgered the horse being mean that way would of been on account of
rough treatment by some one,--she'd been right, even if that some one
was only a scrub of a degenerate halfbreed and not fit to be classed
amongst humans. Without him coming into the life of that pony there
wouldn't of been no such a horse as The Cougar, and he'd still be known
around to the northern country as Smoky, the best cowhorse that ever
busted a critter.

But anyway, and whatever had been in the past of the horse that was now
better known as Cloudy, didn't worry the young lady any. To her he was
"the sweetest horse" she'd ever seen, and she kept a supplying him with
sugar. If she knowed that lumps of sugar wasn't the best thing there is
to feed to a horse, she'd filled her pockets with a handful or so of
grain instead, or something that's more fitting to a horse's stomach
that way, but she didn't know, and she sure meant well.

Fine warm spring days came, the kind of days when folks and animals
alike hunt for a place where the sun shines the best. The last storm of
the season had left, and as it went the last of Cloudy's rest had come
to an end. That pony was rearing to go (as best as he could) when the
young lady came and saddled him one bright afternoon, and as she'd been
cooped up considerable herself, her spirits more than agreed with that
of the horse.

Out of the stable old Cloudy went, his legs hardly feeling the
stiffness that was in 'em, and seeming like his hoofs was more for
flying and not at all for touching the ground. The old pony acted like
he wanted to go so bad that the girl didn't have the heart to hold him
back, besides the stable man had told her one time that it wouldn't
hurt to let him run once in a while, if for a short ways, so, leaning
ahead on her saddle, she let the horse go.

Cloudy et up the distance and brought up sudden changes of scenery as
mile after mile was covered and left behind. With the warming up of the
run, the stiffness went out of his legs, he felt near young again, and
was taking the steep hills more like a four year old than the old stove
up horse he was. Sweat begin a dripping from him, and as the gait was
kept up, that sweat turned to a white lather.

His whole hide was soaked and steaming from the heat of his body, but
he kept right on a wanting to go, and like the girl, the excitement of
the run had got a holt of him till neither realized they was carrying
a good thing too far. The girl's hair was flying in the breeze that
was stirred, she'd lost her hat, but she wasn't caring. To be going and
splitting up some more of that breeze had got to the girl's head, and
cheeks flushed and a smiling she was sure getting a heap of joy out of
just being alive and a going.

The trail followed along a stream and up a canyon; it kept a getting
steeper and steeper, and the old horse begin to breathe harder and
harder, till finally, his wide open nostrils couldn't take on enough
air to do him no more. He had to slow down or else drop in his tracks,
but Cloudy didn't slow down, and not a sign showed on him that he was
wanting to. He was the kind of a horse that never quit and would keep
right on a going till his heart stopped.

The girl, not at all realizing, kept a riding and enjoying the fast
pace for all she was worth. She might of rode the old pony to his death
that afternoon, only, the trail stopped and she couldn't follow it no
further. It had washed out during the spring thaw, and a place ten feet
wide and as deep had cut the trail in two.

She stopped there, and coming out of the trance the fast ride had put
her in, she started looking for a place to cross, but there wasn't any,
and the only way left was to go back on the trail she'd come.

She put her hand on Cloudy's neck like to tell him how it was "too
bad the trail stopped short that way" but she never got to say the
words--The feel of the sweat and lather that covered the horse left her
dumb, and then she noticed how hard he was breathing.

The thrill of the run had turned to sudden worry and fear for what she
might of done, and another sort of excitement took a holt of her as she
realized and then wondered what to do. She stepped away from the horse
and wide eyed looked at him, she'd never seen a horse shake and quiver
all over like that one was doing, he seemed like hardly able to stand
up, rocked back and forth like he was going to keel over any minute.
Cloudy was "jiggered"[7] and his staggering scared her all the more.
She must do something, and quick.

[Footnote 7: Overrun.]

The first thing that came to her was to try and cool him off before,
as she figgered, he fainted from being overheated. She tore at the
saddle and worked at the latigos till it was loosened, then she pulled
it off and with the blanket throwed it to the ground. Steam raised off
the pony's back, and at the sight of that the girl got excited all the
more. Then she spotted the mountain stream below and just a little ways.

She led the horse careful and over to it, and then, thinking steady of
quick ways to cool the horse off, she figgered it a good idea to lead
him in the water and where it was the deepest. She skipped from boulder
to boulder till finally a place was found where the water came up above
the pony's knees, and there she let him stand, while with her cupped
hands she splashed the cold snow water on his chest, shoulders, and
back.

A half an hour or so of that, and the horse at last quit quivering,
showed signs that he was cooled off and got his breath all o. k. again.
After a while he drank, and then drank some more, and the girl watching
him felt sure that the worst was over and that the horse was saved.
She smiled, petted him on the neck, and felt relieved at the natural
way he'd got to acting again.

The sun was hitting for the tall peaks to the west when the girl
finally decided Cloudy was all right again and fit to start back. He
was good and dry by then and felt cool; she'd kept him in the shade all
the while, and being that mountain shade is not at all warm at that
time of the year, the old pony was near shivering from the cold by the
time the girl led him back to the saddle and put it on him again.

The ride back to the stable was like a funeral march as compared with
the one starting out, the horse was kept on a slow walk all the way,
and every care was taken by the girl so that only the easiest trail
was followed; she worried as she rode along and noticed that the horse
didn't seem to be the same as before, his step wasn't so sure and he'd
stumble when there was nothing on the ground for him to stumble on, and
then he'd sway like he was weak.

It was away after dark when finally the stable was reached, the stable
man was there and waiting, and greeting the young lady with a smile he
asked:

"Did you water Cloudy before you left?"

"No," says the girl, "but I watered him on the mountain where I turned
to come back."

"The reason I asked, is because the new stable boy I hired forgot to
water him this morning, or he thought _I_ did."

       *       *       *       *       *

The grey haired man didn't get to ride Cloudy the next day, nor did
anybody else, for that horse was hardly able to even get out of the
stall; his legs was like so many sticks of wood and with no more bend
in 'em than them same sticks have. His head hung near to the ground,
and not a spear of the hay that'd been put in the manger had been
touched.

The girl came to the stable that noon, and would of cried at the sight
of him, only the stable man came up, and she held the tears back best
as she could.

"Looks like he's done for," says that feller as he came up. He didn't
ask the girl what she'd done, cause a look at the horse told him the
whole story better than the girl could of, and as he figgered, a
man has to take them chances when he's renting horses out that way,
besides, the girl looked so downhearted about it that he didn't have
the heart to do any more but try to cheer her up.

"I'll doctor him up the best I can, and maybe get him to come out of it
a little."

The girl took hopes at them words, and her eyes a shining, asked:

"And can I come and help you?"

Every day from then on the time the girl had used a riding Cloudy was
spent in the stable and by that horse. Liniments and medicines of all
kinds was dug up and bought and used, and as the stable man watched
her trying to do her best, he'd only shake his head. He knowed it was
no use, and if the horse did come out of it, he'd never come out of it
enough to ever be of any use as a saddle horse again.

The horse had been foundered.--The twenty-four hours without water,
the hard run and sweating up, and then cooled off sudden in ice cold
water, and drinking his fill of that same water, and all at once, had
crippled him and stoved him up in a way where he'd be plum useless only
maybe for slow work and hooked to a wagon.

A month went by, and the doctoring went on, the girl always a hoping,
and then one day she came to the stable to find the horse gone. She
hunted up the stable man and finally, after a lot of running around,
found him up in the hay loft.

"I figgered," says that feller on finding himself cornered, "that it'd
be best to turn him loose. There's good range up north a ways and
thinking it'd do him more good to be loose that way on good feed, I
just took him up there."

But there was no good range in that country, not for many miles.
The stable man had lied to save the girl's feelings,--and instead,
realizing that he couldn't turn the horse loose only maybe to let him
starve, and being he couldn't afford to keep and feed a useless horse,
there'd been only one way out. He'd sold him to a man who bought old
horses and killed 'em for chicken feed.




                              CHAPTER XIV

                    "DARK CLOUDS, THEN TALL GRASS"


The man collecting old wore out and crippled horses had come along and
led him away. He had a little salt-grass pasture a short distance out
of town, and there's where he took the old horse. He turned him loose
amongst a few more old horses, and would keep him there till the time
come when some "chicken man" around town would need the carcass of one
of the horses to feed to his chickens; then the horse what looked like
it had the shortest to live would be killed and hauled away.

It didn't look like the end was very far for the mouse colored horse.
All the work he'd done and the interest he'd had while under the names
of Smoky and The Cougar, had stopped being accounted for and sort of
pinched out under the name of Cloudy, and now he had no name. He was
just "chicken feed," and soon, if he stayed in that pasture, all what
he'd been and done would be blotted out with the crack of a rifle shot.

But the old pony had no hint of that, and as it was he wasn't for
quitting as yet. His old stiff legs was still able to carry him around
some, the doctoring he'd got at the stable had helped him more than
what had been hoped, and then getting out in a pasture where he could
keep moving around as he wanted to was helping him some more. Besides,
his old heart was still strong, quite a bit solid meat was covering his
ribs, and with the salt and wire grass to graze on he could still make
out and mighty well.

A few weeks went by when once in a while and every few days, one of the
old horses he was pasturing with, was caught, led out, a rifle shot was
heard, and he'd never be seen no more. Other old horses was brought in
and they'd pasture on with him till one by one they'd also disappear
only to be replaced by more of 'em.

The old mouse colored horse must of looked like he was good to live for
a long time yet; anyway, the "chicken horse" man had kept him, maybe
for emergency, and so he wouldn't be out of horses if an order for one,
and that kind was hard to get.

Then one day, a man came, looked all the old horses over. And finally,
like he'd decided, pointed a finger towards the horse that'd last been
known as Cloudy. That pony was caught and led out the same way other
horses had disappeared, but no rifle shot was heard. Instead, a lot of
parleying went on.

Cloudy was led alongside of an old bony something that'd once been a
horse, the old rack of bones was hooked onto a light wagon and seeming
like hardly able to stand as the eyes of the two men went from him to
Cloudy, to sort of figger out which of the two was worth the most, and
_how much_ the most.

Finally the dickering came to an end and seemed like agreeable to both
parties. Three dollars to boot was handed, and the trade was made. The
rack of bones was unhooked, the harness pulled off of him, and turned
loose in the chicken horse pasture. Then Cloudy's old heart missed a
few beats as that same harness was picked up again and throwed over his
own back.

As true a saddle horse, and once hard to set on, as the mouse colored
horse had been, the feel of that harness on his back was as much the
same as if a shovel or a hayfork had been handed to a cowpuncher with
the idea of his using 'em. The old horse felt it a plain disgrace and
snorted as it was buckled around him to stay, but the black whiskered
hombre that buckled it on never seemed to notice or care that the horse
had no liking for the collar and all the straps.

He kept on a fastening the harness, and when that was done, he jerked
the old pony around and backed him into the shafts of the same old
wagon that the rack of bones had been unhooked out of. Cloudy kept on
a snorting and looked on one side and then the other as the shafts of
the wagon was raised. If only he could act the way his heart wanted him
to, but he didn't have the strength, the action to put in it, nor the
energy no more. The most he could do was to snort, quiver, and shake
his head.

But, as he was all hooked up and the man jumping in the wagon grabbed
his whip, Old Cloudy done his best to try and get back to some of the
life and tearing ability that'd once been his. He kicked a couple of
times at the rattling thing on wheels and which he was fastened to,
then he tried to buck some and finally wound up by wanting to run away,
but the harness held and the rattling thing behind came right along
wherever he went, and worse yet, he felt the stinging lash of the man's
whip as he fought on and tried to clear himself. Then the jerking of
the bit thru his mouth, and with all that to show how useless his
fighting and wanting to get away really was, the old pony soon lost
heart. He finally settled down to a choppy lope, then a trot that was
just as choppy, and at last to a walk.

Another sting of the whip was felt on his flank, and at the same time,
the line was jerked at the bit, and Cloudy, still pulling the wagon,
was made to turn up a lane. At the end of the lane was a shack made of
old pieces of boards and covered over with the tin of old oil-cans.
To the right of that and a little ways further was another shack that
looked like a mate to the first, only worse, and that one was going to
be Cloudy's place of rest and shelter whenever work was over.

There he was pulled to a stop, unhooked, led to the manger, and tied.
The stable door was closed with a bang, and after a while the old
horse, still wanting to cling to life regardless of what came, stuck
his nose in the manger to nibble on some of what was in it. He reached
for a mouthful of what he'd naturally took for hay, and chewed for a
spell, but he didn't chew on it long. There was a musty taste about the
long dirty brown stems that didn't at all fit in with any hay he'd ever
et. The kind that'd been put in the manger for him to eat was the same
that the livery stableman had used to put in the stalls and bed the
horses down with. It was straw, only this was musty straw and wouldn't
even make good bedding for horses.

Cloudy felt hungry long before the next morning came, and often thru
the night he'd nosed into the musty straw with the hopes of finding a
few stems that'd do to fill an empty space, but there wasn't any to be
found. The old rack of bones that'd been there before him had looked
for some too, and with no better luck.--Cloudy's new owner figgered
it cheaper to swap horses with the "chicken man" and give him a few
dollars to boot whenever any horse of his give out; he wasn't going to
buy no high-priced hay for no horse. The straw was given to him for the
getting and would keep any horse alive and working for at least six
months, and then, or whenever the horse would be too weak to go any
more, he'd trade him for another. Any kind of a horse, fat or thin,
could always be used by the chicken man, and in trade, he'd always take
one of the fattest to take the place of the one he'd just starved near
to death,--that way, year in year out, he'd keep a draining the last of
the life of every horse he'd get his claws onto.

His property, and where he starved the horses into making a living for
him, took in a couple of acres. Half of that land was rocks, mostly,
and where he kept a few chickens, he bought, or stole a little grain
for _them_, but they well repaid him, every time he went to town there
was a basket of eggs in his wagon and which he sold well. The other
half of his land was cultivated, and where vegetables of all kinds had
been made to grow. There's where the help of a horse was needed, to
pull the cultivator or the plow, then the hauling of the vegetables to
town, and once there, any odd job that could be got and which would
bring a few dollars for the use of the horse and wagon.

It was bright and early the next morning when the work begin for
Cloudy. The man showed his teeth in a grin as he looked in the manger
while putting the harness on the horse, and noticing the straw in there
hadn't hardly been touched, remarked:

"You'll be eating some of that before you get thru."

Cloudy was made acquainted with many different kinds of implements
and work that day. All was mighty strange and plum against the ways
of working which he'd been broke to do. It was pull, and pull, one
contraption and then another, back and forth thru furrows, turn at the
end and then back again. If he slowed down, or hesitated, wondering
what to do, there was the whip always on hand to make him decide and
mighty quick.

His muscles, having developed under the saddle, used to pack weight,
and set that way, wasn't for getting next to the change very easy.
Looking thru a collar and pulling steady was so different to heading
off and turning a wild-eyed critter. It wasn't at all like coming out
of the chute in front of a grandstand and seeing how many jumps could
be put into one, nor didn't compare even with packing equestrians
around. He'd felt some free under the saddle, and even tho all of it
had been real work, there'd always been something that fitted in and
which made him feel natural.

But now, with all these straps a hanging onto him, there was a feeling
that he was tied down,--them straps even seemed to wrap around his
heart at times and keep it from beating. And taking all, the strange
hard work, the sting of the whip-lash on his ribs, nothing fit to eat
after he was tired out and the day was over, it was no wonder that the
old pony's heart begin to shrivel up on him.

As the long days run into weeks and the work in the field and in the
town got to bearing down on him, the old pony even got so he couldn't
hate no more; abuse or kindness had both got to be the same, and one
brought out no more result or show of interest than the other. He
went to the jerk of the lines like without realizing, and when he was
finally led into the stable when night come the feeling was the same.
There he et the musty straw because it was under his nose, he didn't
mind the taste of it, he didn't mind anything, any more.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of the odd jobs that Cloudy's owner would get to do around town and
whenever he could get away from his truck and chicken farm, there was
one which he looked forward to the most, and which the thought of made
him rub his hands together with pleasure. It was that of scattering
the posters advertising The Annual Rodeo, and Celebration, that was
pulled off in town and every early fall. But that wasn't all, there
was many other things for him to do at that time for which he could
charge without anybody ever finding out whether all he'd been paid to
do really had been done.

That year as usual, he was ready, and right on the dot to take on some
more of that kind of work. He'd hooked up the old mouse colored horse
and taking a load of vegetables on the way in, stuck around town doing
the different kinds of work the rodeo association had furnished him
with. He'd be on the go all day and prodding the old horse into a trot,
sometimes even if the wagon was loaded.

It'd be away into the night before he'd turn the tired horse towards
home. Every day was a great day, _for the man_, there was so many
people around to make the town lively, and being most of 'em was
strangers, he could get to within talking distance of 'em easy enough,
and a few would even stand to have him around for a few minutes at the
time.

Them strangers had come to see the rodeo, most of 'em was from other
towns around, and mixed in the crowd once in a while could be seen the
high-crowned hat of a cowboy who'd come to ride, rope, and bulldog.
Then at the Casa Grande Hotel, and registered there, was many cattle
buyers from the northern States.

They'd come to bid on the big herds of cattle that was being crowded
acrost the border from Mexico, for Pancho Villa and the Yaquis was
making it hard for the cattleman of that country. Villa took the cattle
to feed his army, while the Yaquis run off whatever Villa overlooked,
and the cowman that could, and had any stock left, soon seen where if
he wanted to save anything of what he'd worked to accumulate, he'd have
to rush whatever that was to the border and get it on American soil
mighty quick.

[Illustration: The long horned "Sonora reds" begin to spread all over
the range countries of the U. S. plum up to the Canadian line.]

That's how come that the stockyards of the border towns was filled with
cattle and that the hotels along them same towns was filled with
cattle buyers. The Casa Grande Hotel was the most filled on account
that along with the business of buying cattle, a little pleasure
could be got there afterwards. A rodeo was in that town, and night
celebrations, and being that them cattle buyers was still as much
cowboys as ever, a good bucking contest and the fun afterwards couldn't
be overlooked, not if it could be helped. "Yep, the town was sure
lively."

Two of the buyers was setting in the lobby of the hotel one morning and
a talking on the first day's event of the rodeo. A telegraph pole which
stuck up right before their vision and on the edge of the sidewalk,
and nailed to that pole was a poster advertising the rodeo, and with
a photograph of a bucking horse in action on it, told all about "the
great bucking horse and outlaw The Grey Cougar, the only one that could
compare, in wickedness and bucking ability, to The Cougar, that once
famous man killing horse."

The two went on to talking about the rodeo, and naturally the talk
drifted on about The Grey Cougar, and "_how_ he could buck."

"The boys tell me," says one of the men, "that this Grey Cougar horse
couldn't hold a candle to the real Cougar when it come to bucking
and fighting. According to that, the other horse must of been _some_
wicked."

The man was still talking on the subject, when an old mouse colored
horse, pulling an old wagon loaded down with vegetables, came to a
stiff legged stop, and right by the telegraph pole on which the poster
telling all about The Grey Cougar was nailed. The man in the lobby
grinned a little at the sight of the old horse a standing there like in
comparison with the famous grey outlaw, and pointing a finger in his
direction, he remarked:

"There must be the Old Cougar right there, Clint. Anyway he's got the
same color."

The man called Clint grinned some at the joke, but the grin soon faded
away as he kept a looking at the old horse, and noticed the condition
he was in,--then he seen the saddle-marks that was all over the pony's
back, and he says:

"You can never tell, that old pony might of been mighty hard to set at
one time too--but the way he looks like now, them times are sure done
past and gone."

"Yep," agreed the other man, "it's a miracle that pony can navigate at
all--I wonder how it is that this Humane Society hombre that's sticking
around the rodeo grounds don't happen to notice such as this. I'd like
to help hang a feller for driving a horse like that around."

The conversation was held up for a spell as the two men watched the
bewhiskered man come out of the hotel with an empty basket and climbed
the wagon on which the old mouse colored horse was hooked. He grabbed
the lines and the whip both at the same time and went to work a putting
the horse into a trot.

Clint was for getting up as he seen the whip land on the old pony's
hide, but the other man grabbed a hold of his arm and says:

"Never mind, old boy, most likely that Humane Society outfit'll fall
on that bolshevik's neck before he gets very far."

The man called Clint set down again, but he was boiling up inside, and
he didn't at all look pleasant as the conversation was resumed and
noticed how his friend turned it to other things and away from the
subject of old horses and such. He wasn't for answering very quick
when that same friend went on to talking about that country to the
north;--how he'd heard rumors that the Rocking R might be selling out
in another year or so. "I wonder why?" he asks.

Clint turned to his friend and grinning at his idea of changing the
subject that way, finally answered: "I guess it's because Old Tom feels
the end a coming, besides he's getting crowded all around by small
outfits, and his range aint holding up like it used to."

"But what are you going to do when the Rocking R sells out?--you left
that country quite a few times the last few years, and I notice you
always go back like there was no other that suited you."

"I've got that fixed," says Clint gradually taking more heart in the
new subject, and there he tried to describe some;--"you know abouts
where that camp is where I used to break horses when I first started
working for the Rocking R? it's where the outfit used to run their
stock horses. Well, I bought that camp from Old Tom Jarvis,--that is, I
talked him into selling it to me, and four thousand acres of the fine
range around to go with it.

[Illustration: No remuda got by that Clint didn't ride thru.]

"I'm thinking that this shipment I'm getting together now will be the
last Old Tom'll ever buy, and by the time I get this train-load of
Sonora Reds north and delivered to him, I'll have enough money to make
the final payment on my place and still have enough left to buy a few
head of cattle and start stocking it."

Clint often thought of his little place up in the heart of the cow
country to the north. He could picture his own cattle ranging there and
packing a brand of his on their slick hides,--he'd a long time hoped
for the likes, and at last he was getting it. A couple more days now,
and he'd be heading north again, and there to stay, this time.

       *       *       *       *       *

The last day of the rodeo had come, and Clint was to start with his
train load of stock that night. Him and his friend was setting in the
lobby of the hotel that evening a talking and wondering when they'd be
seeing one another again, when outside and by the telegraph pole, came
the same old mouse colored horse and stopped not an inch from where the
two men had seen him a couple of days before.

Both was quick to spot him again this time, and right then, for some
reason or other the conversation died down. The first sight of that old
pony hadn't been forgot, and when he showed up this second time, right
before their eyes, he was like reminding 'em, and natural like, set the
two men to thinking. That old shadow of a horse told some of the hard
knocks of life, of things that was past and gone and which could of
been bettered while the bettering could be done.

It was while the thinking was going on that way, that Clint sort of
felt a faint, far away something a knocking and from down the bottom
of his think tank. That something was trying hard to come back to life
as that man's eyes kept a going over the pony's blazed face and bony
frame, but it was buried so far underneath so many things that'd been
stacked there, that the knocking was pretty well muffled up. It'd have
to be helped by some sort of a sudden jolt before it could come out on
top.

The jolt came as the vegetable man got his seat on the wagon and as
usual reached for the whip. Clint's friend a trying to keep him from
running out and starting a rompus had tried to draw his interest by
asking:

"What's become of that cowhorse _Smoky_, that used to----?"

But the question was left for _him_ to wonder about, for Clint wasn't
there to answer, instead the hotel door slammed and only a glimpse
of that same cowboy could be seen as he passed by the lobby window.
In less than it takes to tell it, he was up on the wagon, took a
bulldogging holt of the surprised vegetable man, and by his whiskers,
drug him off his seat and down to earth.

The telephone on the desk of the sheriff's office rang till it near
danced a jig, and when that feller lifted the receiver, a female voice
was heard to holler: "somebody is killing somebody else with a whip, by
the Casa Granda Hotel. _Hurry! Quick!_"

The sheriff appeared on the scene and took in the goings on at a
glance. Like a man who knowed his business, his eyes went to looking
for what might of caused the argument as he came. He looked at the old
horse whose frame showed thru the hide, then the whip marks on that
hide. He knowed horses as well as he did men, and when he noticed more
marks of the same whip on the bewhiskered man's face, he stood his
ground, watched, and then grinned.

"Say, cowboy," he finally says, "don't skatter that hombre's remains
too much, you know we got to keep record of that kind the same as if it
was a white man, and I don't want to be looking all over the streets to
find out who he was."

Clint turned at the sound of the voice, and sizing up the grinning
sheriff, went back to his victim and broke the butt end of the whip
over his head, after which he wiped his hands, and proceeded to unhook
the old horse off the wagon.

That evening was spent in "investigating." Clint and the sheriff went
to the chicken-horse man and found out enough from him about the
vegetable man and his way of treating horses to put that hombre in a
cool place and keep him there for a spell.

"I'm glad to've caught on to that feller's doings," remarks the sheriff
as him and Clint went to the livery stable, their next place of
investigation.

There Clint listened mighty close as he learned a heap about the mouse
colored horse when he was known as Cloudy. The stable man went on to
tell as far as he knowed about the horse and the whole history of him,
and when that pony was known thru the Southwest and many other places,
as _The Cougar_, the wickedest bucking horse and fighting outlaw the
country had ever layed eyes on.

Clint was kinda proud in hearing that. He'd heard of The Cougar and
that pony's bucking ability even up to the Canadian line and acrost
it, and to himself he says: "That Smoky horse never did do things
halfways." But he got to wondering, and then asked how come the pony
had turned out to be the kind of a horse, that, the stable man didn't
know. It was news to him that the horse had ever been anything else,
and as he says:

"The first that was seen of that horse is when some cowboys found him
on the desert, amongst a bunch of wild horses, and packing a saddle.
Nobody had ever showed up to claim him, and as that pony had been more
than inclined to buck and fight is how come he was sold as a bucking
horse--and believe me, old timer," went on the stable man, a shaking
his head, "he was _some_ bucking horse."

"Well," says the sheriff, "that's another clue run to the ground with
nothing left of, but the remains."

That night, the big engine was hooked on to the train-load of cattle
as to per schedule and started puffing its way on to the north. In the
last car, the one next to the cabbose, and the least crowded, a space
had been partitioned off. In that space was a bale of good hay, a
barrel of water, and an old mouse colored horse.

       *       *       *       *       *

The winter that came was very different to any the old mouse colored
horse had ever put in. The first part of it went by with him like in
a trance, not realizing and hardly seeing. His old heart had dwindled
down till only a sputtering flame was left, and that threatened to go
out with the first hint of any kind of breeze.

Clint had got the old horse in a warm box stall, filled the manger full
of the best blue joint hay there was, and even bedded him down with
more of the same; water was in that same stall and where it could be
easy reached, and then that cowboy had bought many a dollar's worth of
condition powders, and other preparations which would near coax life
back even in a dead body.

Two months went by when all seemed kinda hopeless, but Clint worked on
and kept a hoping. He'd brought the old horse in the house, and made
him a bed by the stove if that would of helped, and far as that goes,
he'd of done anything else, just so a spark of life showed in the old
pony's eyes; but he'd done all he could do, and as he'd lay a hand on
the old skinny neck and felt of the old hide, he'd cuss and wish for
the chance of twisting out of shape all who had been responsible. Then
his expression would change, and he'd near bust out crying as he'd
think back and compare the old wreck with what that horse had been.

As much as Clint had liked Smoky, the old wreck of a shadow of that
horse wasn't wanting for any of the same liking. It was still in the
cowboy's heart a plenty, and if anything, more so on account that the
old pony was now needing help, and a friend like he'd never needed
before, and Clint was more on hand with the horse, now that he was
worthless, than he'd been when Smoky was the four hundred dollar
cowhorse and worth more.

Finally, and after many a day of care and worrying, Clint begin to
notice with a glad smile, that the pony's hide was loosening up; then
after a week or so more of shoving hay and grain, condition powders,
and other things down the old pony's throat, a layer of meat begin to
spread over them bones and under that hide. Then one day a spark showed
in the pony's eye, soon after that he started taking interest in the
things around.

As layer after layer of meat and then tallow accumulated and rounded
the sharp corners of Smoky's frame, that pony was for noticing more and
more till after a while his interest spread enough, and with a clearer
vision, went as far as to take in the man, who kept a going and coming,
once in a while touched him, and then talked.

Clint liked to had a fit one day, when talking to the horse and
happening to say _Smoky_, he noticed that pony cock an ear.

The recuperating of the horse went pretty fast from then on, and as
the winter days howled past and early spring drawed near, there was
no more fear of Smoky's last stand being anywheres near. As the days
growed longer and the sun got warmer, there was times when Clint would
lead the horse out and turn him loose to walk around in the sunshine,
and that way get the blood to circulating. Smoky would sometimes mosey
along for hours around the place and then start out on some trail, but
always when the sun went down, he was by the stable door again and
then Clint would let him in.

Clint would watch him by the hour whenever the horse was out that way,
and he'd wonder, as he kept his eye on him, if that pony remembered,
if the knocks he'd got from different people in different countries,
didn't forever make him forget his home range and all that went with
it. Not many miles away was where he was born; the big mountains now
covered with snow was the same he was raised on, and which he tore up
with his hoofs as he played while a little colt, and by his mammy. The
corrals by the stable and sheds was the ones he was first run into when
branded, and in them, a few years later, broke to saddle; but what
Clint would wonder the most, as he watched, is whether Smoky remembered
_him_.

The cowboy had kept a hoping that sometime he'd be greeted with a
nicker as he'd open the stable door in the morning. Clint felt if the
horse remembered, he would nicker that way at the sight of him and
like he used to, but morning after morning went by, and even tho Smoky
seemed full of life and rounded out to near natural again, no nicker
was ever heard.

"Somebody must of stretched that pony's heartstrings to the breaking
point," he remarked one day, as he'd stopped, wondering as usual, and
looked at the horse.

Finally spring came sure enough, and broke up the winter. Green grass
covered ridges took the place of snow banks, and the cottonwoods along
the creeks was beginning to bud. It was during one of them fine
spring days, when riding along and looking the country over, Clint run
acrost a bunch of horses. In the bunch was a couple of colts just a few
days old, and knowing that old ponies have such a strong interest and
liking for the little fellers, the cowboy figgered the sight of 'em
would help considerable in bringing Smoky's heart up a few notches, and
maybe to remembering. He fell in behind the bunch and hazed 'em all
towards the corrals, and as Smoky, turned loose that day, spotted the
bunch, his head went up. Then he noticed the little fellers, and that
old pony, gathering all the speed there was in him, headed straight for
the bunch and amongst 'em.

Clint corralled him and all the rest together and setting on his horse
at the gate, watched Smoky while that horse was having the time of his
life getting acquainted. The pony dodged kicks and bites and went back
and forth thru the bunch, and a spark showed in his eye which hadn't
been there for many a day.

The cowboy could near see the horse smile at the little colts, and
he was surprised at the show of action and interest the old pony had
reserved, or gained. He was acting near like a two-year-old, and Clint
grinned as he watched.

"Daggone his old hide," says the cowboy, "it looks to me like he's good
to live and enjoy life for many summers yet;" then thinking strong,
he went on, "and maybe in that time he might get to remembering me
again--I wonder."

He watched Smoky a while longer and till he got acquainted some, and
at last deciding it'd be for the best to let him go, he reined his
horse out of the gate and let the bunch run by. The old pony seemed to
hesitate some as the bunch filed out, he liked their company mighty
well but something held him back; then a horse nickered, and even tho
that nicker might not of been meant for him, it was enough to make him
decide. He struck out on a high lope and towards the bunch;--one of the
little colts and full of play waited for him, and nipping the old horse
in the flanks run by his side till the bunch was caught up with--Smoky
was _living_ again.

Clint sat on his horse and watched the bunch lope out over a ridge and
out of sight, and with a last glimpse at the mouse colored rump he
grinned a little, but it was a sorry grin, and as he kept a looking the
way Smoky had gone, he says:

"I wonder if he ever will."

       *       *       *       *       *

With the green grass growing near an inch a day, Clint wasn't worried
much on how old Smoky was making it. He figgered a horse couldn't
die if he wanted to, not on that range at that time of the year, but
some day soon he was going to try and locate the old horse and find
out for sure how he really was. Then a lot of work came on which kept
the cowboy from going out soon as he wanted to, and then one morning,
bright and early, as he stepped out to get a bucket of water, the
morning sun throwed a shadow on the door, and as he stuck his head out
a nicker was heard.

[Illustration: As he stepped out to get a bucket of water the morning
sun throwed a shadow on the door.]

Clint dropped his bucket in surprise at what he heard and then seen.
For, standing out a ways, slick, and shiny, was the old mouse colored
horse. The good care the cowboy had handed him, and afterwards, the
ramblings over the old home range, had done its work. The heart of
Smoky had come to life again, and full size.