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.
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 particular 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 today,” 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 climbed 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 meanness 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 corralled 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 hands 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,
