There was so much that was strange and which kept his senses on the jump. The big wagons with the four and six horse teams done a lot of spooky rattling as they followed the pilot, sometimes on a high lope, across the rolling prairie, over benches and down draws. Then trailing along close behind the thumping of hoofs of many ponies, the remuda, made a sound which hinted everything to Smoky, everything from a stampede on up, and if it hadn’t been for the hand that once in a while was felt on his neck, and the voice which he heard and knowed so well, the little horse would of sure left a streak of dust and away from all that confusion of wagons and men.
There was too many riders around him. They all kept too close, and once in a while as the outfit sashayed on towards the first camp grounds and some bronc would bust out a bucking and a trying to shed off a cowboy, Smoky felt a lot like doing the same. But always, and whenever he felt like “kettling” the most, Clint’s hand and voice was there to quiet him down. That hand and voice worked the same as to prove to Smoky, that as long as Clint was around close there was nothing for him to fear.
As the outfit rambled on, Clint gradually reined Smoky to one side till he was well away and where he would feel more at ease to watch without fear all what the layout had to show that was strange. Smoky’s ears then perked up at a different angle, and as Clint talked to him that spooky looking outfit lining out acrost the range got to look less spooky and more interesting.
Smoky followed the outfit and watched it till the sun was well up in the middle of the sky, then the pilot raised his hand, made a circle and the wagons followed him to a standstill. A dry camp was made and the cook had the pots to working a few minutes after the outfit had come to a stop. The rope corrals was strung out in the wink of an eye and the remuda run in.
Smoky had watched the whole proceedings with a lot of interest, the many horses, men, and all had him to using his eyes and ears to the limit, and the low snorts he’d let out every once in a while as he turned to watch all that went on, was as plain as talk, that for excitement this sure had everything he’d ever seen before beat to a frazzle.
“Come and get it, you Rannies!” It was the cook’s holler for the riders to come and eat. About then Smoky seen Clint headed towards him and where he’d been left picketed. A little rub back of the ear and Smoky was led to the rope corral, unsaddled, and turned in with the remuda.
“Have a good roll, Smoky horse,” says Clint as he turned him loose, “and don’t let no ornery pony get the best of you.”
Smoky looked back at Clint for a spell the same as to ask him where he was going, and as the cowboy stood there watching the little horse moseyed on and disappeared amongst the saddle bunch.
The “roundup pan” was filling up with the tin cups and plates as the cowboys, thru eating, was making their way towards their saddles by the rope corrals. A hard-twist catch rope was unbuckled from them saddles, loops was shook out, and pretty soon them same loops begin a sailing and a reaching out like a mighty long arm for the horse each cowboy picked out for that afternoon’s ride.
Smoky seen and heard the hiss of them loops as they sailed on over past him to settle around some other pony’s neck, and even though all was done quiet so none of the horses would start running too much, Smoky had a mighty restless feeling whenever them snaky ropes appeared. Clint hadn’t roped him only once and that was when he was a raw bronc, but he hadn’t forgot the feeling that’d been his when that same rope had caught him, stretched him out, and left him plumb helpless.
His brain was near stampeding with him at the sound of so many ropes, and once in a while when he’d spot some strange rider carrying one of them hated coils the sight made him hit for the middle of the herd—but even there he wasn’t safe, for there was no telling how far them ropes could reach.
It was in winding around and thru the thick of the herd, that Smoky found himself on the edge and crowded against the big rope cable which was the corral. The sight that met his eye there had him wanting to hide back in the middle of the herd once again, but he had no chance, the herd had him wedged where he couldn’t move and as it was he had to stare wild eyed at all that was there for him to see.
A few feet away was half a dozen riders saddling up, and that’s what kettled Smoky—the few feet that was between him and them strangers was too close for comfort. He was just about to try another grand rush to get back into the middle of the herd when the sound of something familiar made him hesitate. It was the ring of a spur rowel, a ring he’d heard often, and pretty soon Smoky spots Clint only a few feet away from him and leading a strange horse to his saddle.
Smoky stuck his head and neck out far as he could and nickered at the sight of the cowboy, and that cowboy having his attention some other direction at the time was made to turn mighty quick as the well
