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 roundup 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 though the rider looked OK 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 roundup 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,” answered 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 skyline who corralled ’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 roundup had started.
VIII
Smoky Starts Out
The first day of the fall roundup was to Smoky a whole lot like the first day of school to the kid of the settlement, only, Smoky was
