That’s the way Smoky’s feelings had come to be for the bowlegged 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.
“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 maneuvering 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 ain’t 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
