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.
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 color 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
