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 today.”
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 though 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 sidewinding 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
